


Clean Burn

by whatsherface



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And Men Who Love Them, Angst, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mage Rights, Mages and Templars, Power Couple, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 130,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsherface/pseuds/whatsherface
Summary: Twenty years in the Circle taught Owain Trevelyan to survive, to bury his hopes and dreams and take nothing--and no one--at face value. When the mage rebellion lands him in the Inquisition, he’s called upon to confront his past and help shape the future. The skeptic is asked to hope, as Thedas hangs in the balance.A DAI remix through the eyes of a male mage Trevelyan. Explores his inner world and relationships, especially with the Lady Seeker- a slow burn, friends-to-lovers, low-key romance situation. Just two people trying to figure things out in the midst of war, duty, and the expectations we place on ourselves and others.A note on form: chapters average around 4-5k words, relatively self-contained “episodes” with serialized elements. Thanks for reading!





	1. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions.

Senior Enchanter Owain Trevelyan leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose, absently running his thumb along the scar on his right cheek. It had been a long day, and, somehow, it wasn’t over yet. 

He squinted at the others from across the table spread with maps of Ferelden and Orlais and littered with tokens and loose bits of parchment. The room was a small, dimly lit chamber in the Haven Chantry, and their voices threatened to overfill it. The bickering was giving him a headache. He stopped listening to the words and let the sound wash around him like a wave.

He ticked them off: the Spy, the Soldier, the Diplomat. So true to type. In a different context, he might have laughed at that. He knew their kind, from life at the Ostwick Circle and from memories of his highborn childhood. All of which felt like a lifetime ago. 

His eyes lingered on the Seeker, Cassandra, who was punching the table to emphasize a point. A sword swayed at her hip, and the fiery eye of Andraste adorned the front of her heavy armor. The map markers jumped in place, as if that would save them from her wrath. One of them skipped off the table and rolled out of sight. 

He had never met a Seeker of Truth before. From what he gathered, they were a special kind of Templar, and he had known _a lot_ of Templars. Still, she was not what he expected. 

He first met Cassandra Pentaghast in that dungeon, where they had taken him after the Conclave. After the mark had appeared on his left hand. The mark that still pulsed and glowed faintly green, even now. She had raged at him with her voice full of anger and grief. She had shaken him and threatened him, and she would have done far worse, probably, if not for spymaster Leliana's intervention. 

And yet, she had also freed him and gone with him to the rift in the veil. She had defended him and, more importantly, let him defend himself. “We both know I don’t need a weapon to be dangerous,” he’d warned through gritted teeth, gripping the staff he’d found and bracing for a stand-off, flames gathering in his empty hand. “You’re right,” she’d said to his surprise, looking in his eyes and lowering her blade. “I should remember you did not try to run.”

They fought side-by-side after that, falling into an easy rhythm in the heat of battle. They closed one rift and then another. And then the largest, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, which had been reduced to a charred crater--ashes, indeed. His own voice had emanated from the breach, and that of the Divine. But try as he might, he could remember nothing about those events or even saying those words. He had scoured his memory and come up empty... 

His thoughts were broken by a sudden silence and the awareness of four pairs of eyes looking in his direction. Clearly, they expected a response. 

“I’m sorry- what was that?” he stumbled. 

Cassandra made an impatient noise but repeated herself. “Are you with us?” she asked, fixing him with her gaze. “Will you join the Inquisition?” 

He frowned and answered her question with another. “Do I really have a choice?” 

“You are free to go, if you like.” Leliana was the one who answered, her face hooded and her smile dangerously casual as she folded her hands behind her back. “But you should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty, and we cannot protect you if you leave us.”

He blinked slowly, considering the veiled threat in her words. “So, no.” No choice, not for a former Circle mage during a mage rebellion. Not for the sole survivor of the Conclave, and not for the one with the mark. The Chantry had plenty of reasons to hunt him down. He might doubt the existence of Andraste herself, but the swords of her faithful were real enough. 

He sighed. “Alright. I'll stay, for now. I assume you have some kind of plan?” He gestured at the maps on the table. “You must have something to show for all this arguing.” 

“Closing the breach must be our first priority,” Cassandra said, eager to plan their next move. “Solas says it is stable for now, but we will need more power to close it for good. That mark on your hand is the key.”

“A group of rebel mages has taken refuge in Redcliffe. Perhaps we could persuade them to help,” Leliana proposed. 

“I disagree. More magic poured into a mark we barely understand?” Cullen broke in, gripping the hilt of his sword as he spoke. “Far too risky. The Templars could serve just as well. They could suppress the breach, weaken it so you could close it properly. I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of.” The last was obvious to Owain already. Cullen may not have been wearing the plate, but his stance alone identified him to a practiced eye. 

Leliana opened her mouth to respond, but Josephine beat her to it, punctuating each sentence with a flourish of her quill. “Either way, neither the mages nor the templars will even speak to us right now. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition- and _you_ , specifically.” She nodded at Owain. 

“Well that certainly didn’t take long,” he said, folding his arms across his chest defensively. 

“Some are calling you, a _mage_ , the Herald of Andraste,” Josephine explained in her smooth Antivan accent. “As you can imagine, that upsets the Chantry. They have declared it blasphemy, and we are heretics for harboring you. Approaching either the mages or the Templars for help is out of the question until we can prove ourselves.”

“That reminds me,” Leliana said, turning to him. “There is a cleric named Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands who has asked to speak with you, Herald. Perhaps this could be an opportunity to gain support among what remains of the Chantry.”

 _Herald of fucking Andraste._ The title made him cringe. “I’m not a Herald of anything, let alone Andraste,” Owain asserted. “Do you really think she’ll listen to a mage? We tend to be unpopular with clerics.” 

“She knows who you are, and she’s the one who requested a meeting,” Leliana answered, matter-of-factly. “There are those in the Chantry who are more reasonable than you might think. And her assistance could be invaluable.”

“Fine,” Owain sighed again, resigned. Having pledged his cooperation to these people and their Inquisition, exhaustion settled like a weight on his shoulders. The headache throbbed against his skull. “I’ll leave in the morning,” he added. “If that’s all, I think I’m done for the day.” He moved for the door. 

“I’ll go with you,” Cassandra said, meeting his eyes again. He nodded and left, closing the door behind him. 

\--

The air outside the Chantry was cold. The wind ruffled his hair and flapped at his cloak as he walked. It was a revelation after the closeness of the war room. Dusk had fallen while he was inside, and fires were being kindled all over camp.

Music and laughter drifted from the tavern as he passed. He could hear the minstrel picking out a melody and the dull thud of glasses on wood tables. _Maker,_ he could use a drink, but he couldn't face a crowd right now, especially not one that addressed him as “Your Worship.” Half fear, half adoration. He wasn’t sure which he preferred. 

His feet carried him past his own cabin, past the main gates and the blacksmith and the tents. He found a small dock at the edge of the lake and sat down on the end of it, his legs dangling over the frozen surface. 

It started to snow--lightly--a few flakes here and there. Darkness and silence gathered around him like a wool blanket, welcome. He snapped his fingers and conjured a small flame that danced on his fingertips and turned snowflakes into vapor. 

He thought of home--such as it was--the Circle at Ostwick, where he had spent the last two decades of his life. It wasn’t bad, as Circles went. Nothing like the atrocities they heard about in Kirkwall, but there was a quiet, constant oppression that took its own kind of toll. They had voted for rebellion, himself included, and dreamed of freedom from walls and Templars and rules they had no say in. They had voted, too, to send him to the Conclave as their representative, thinking the Trevelyan name might buy them some influence in the talks. So it might have, if the Conclave had not gone up in flames, and he, alone, survived. He searched his mind again for memories of that day, and again he found nothing. Maybe it wasn’t even the Circle itself he missed, but the familiarity, the certainty, knowing a place and his role in it, no matter how limited--and limiting--that might be...

“Ah, it’s you,” a voice drawled from behind him, followed by the sound of a sword scraping against its scabbard. Instinctively, Owain leapt to his feet, hand scrabbling at his back for the staff that was _not_ there and cursing himself for leaving camp unarmed. A moment later, his brain registered the voice as Cassandra’s, and she appeared at the end of the dock holding a torch in one hand and sheathing her sword with the other. 

He sat back down. The planks creaked under her boots as she made her way down the dock to join him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, forcing calm into his voice. 

“I suppose I could ask you the same,” she responded archly, turning to look at him. He said nothing, so she continued. “I volunteered for the first watch. I sensed magic and came to investigate.”

“And all you found was a sad, homesick mage,” he added with a wry smile. “Disappointed?”

“Not just a mage,” she said, perfectly serious. “The Herald of Andraste.”

His shoulders stiffened at the title, again. 

They were silent for a moment, watching the snow fall. Then she sighed. “Did I do the right thing?” she asked. “What I have set into motion here could destroy everything I have revered my whole life. One day, they might write about me as a traitor, a madwoman, a fool. And they may be right.”

He looked at her in the torchlight, her dark hair shining and eyes flashing, shadows sketching the angles of her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth… Her face was striking, to be sure, but it was her candor that disarmed him now. “What do _you_ think?” he reflected back at her, at a loss for better words. Another question-as-answer, he grumbled silently to himself. 

“I think you are innocent,” she said evenly. “And I think there is more going on here than we can see. But is this the Maker’s will? I can only guess.”

“You mean you don’t believe I’m chosen? You did just call me the Herald of Andraste,” he pointed out. 

“I think you were sent to help us.” She studied his face as she spoke. “I hope you were. But the Maker’s help takes many forms. Sometimes it’s difficult to know who it truly benefits, or how.”

“Isn’t it a little late to worry about that now?” he asked. “You’ve declared the Inquisition, and I’ve agreed to help you.”

“We have only just begun,” she said, shrugging her shoulders slightly. “You might think this is brash, or that I should think more before I act, but it is how I am. I see what must be done, and I do it. I see no point running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail. But I misjudged you in the beginning, did I not? I cannot afford to be so careless again.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said. Was that an apology? His tone cooled as the dungeon flashed in his memory again. 

She paused before continuing. “Forgive me. I can be harsh, I know. But tell me, Trevelyan. Do _you_ believe you were chosen? _Are_ you the Herald of Andraste?”

Her eyes searched his, warm hazel piercing his steel grey, and he couldn’t stand the intimacy of it. He knew what she wanted to hear. But he looked away, and instead, he told her what he felt to be true. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not chosen. I… I don't even believe in Andraste. Or the Maker. I believe in _this_ world, that it is what we make it.”

“It must be comforting to be so certain,” she said after a beat, eyes never leaving his face. “I have to believe we were put on this path for a reason, even if you do not. Now we must see where it leads us.” She stood to leave. “Good night, Herald.”

“Seeker.”

He waited until the sound of her footsteps faded into the night. Then he squeezed his hand into a fist, and when he opened it, the flames filled his palm. 

She was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for rehashing some game dialogue, particularly in early chapters. Sometimes it just works the best! It should get rarer as we go along. This is my first foray into fic, so thanks again for reading!


	2. Val Royeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the fire.

The Hinterlands were a nightmare. 

Not nightmare like a demon, but nightmare like never-ending, mind-numbing boredom. Being the Herald of Andraste seemed to make him everyone’s errand boy. The breach still hung in the sky, but you would never know it from all the trinket-fetching, sheep-herding, and herb-picking he had done over the last fortnight. 

He recalled it bitterly as his horse churned the mud on the road to Val Royeaux. No sooner had they returned to Haven then Josephine had sent them on a new mission to address the grand clerics in the Orlesian capital on behalf of the Inquisition. Errand boy, indeed. One positive: the rain that had dogged them the past twenty-four hours had dissipated into a thick, grey mist. He thought he might be marginally drier than yesterday, though he couldn’t be sure. 

Despite his complaints, the trip wasn’t a complete waste. He had succeeded in meeting with Mother Giselle, and they had brought much-needed supplies for the refugees at the Crossroads. He had even treated some of the wounded with healing magic. Never his specialty, but better than nothing, he thought. Let them see that mages were not all monsters to be feared. 

This was his first look at the mage-Templar conflict up close, and after just a few days, he could see it was utterly pointless. At its lowest level, the war amounted to small groups of rogue Templars fighting bands of rebel mages. No strategy, no plan, just unnecessary bloodshed and destruction that served no one. The Conclave had been sorely needed then, and it was even more overdue now. 

They had also picked up a few recruits in the Hinterlands, including a Grey Warden named Blackwall. And when they returned to Haven, a crew of mercenaries and their Qunari leader were waiting on their doorstep to offer their services. Not in the business of turning away help, the Inquisition had taken them on, though Leliana kept a sharp eye on Iron Bull, who made no secret of his Ben-Hassrath ties. 

Owain had to admit he was feeling more comfortable with his role in the Inquisition, though he still bristled at the title. They had camped out nearly every night away from Haven. He would spend evenings by the fire debating Solas on the finer points of fade manipulation and drinking whiskey with Varric. The dwarf hadn’t decided on a nickname for him yet but assured him he was “working on it.” 

As for Cassandra, they had spoken a few times on their journey, but nothing like that evening in Haven. She slept early and rose early and rarely joined them by the campfire. Was she disappointed in him, in his unbelief? Had he been too honest that night? He had worn those questions threadbare with nothing to show for it. Today, she had ridden ahead of their group, as usual. He looked up and could just make out her shadow in the fog ahead. 

“You sit a horse well, milord,” said Blackwall, pulling up next to him and breaking into his thoughts. The Warden had taken off his helmet, and drops of water augmented the silver streaks in his otherwise dark hair and beard. He smiled. “Do they have many at the Circle?”

“Hah,” Owain snorted, pushing his hood back and slowing to a walk. “I’m afraid leaving the tower is a rare enough occasion for mages. We don’t have to think much about transportation. No. I grew up around horses. My family used to raise them back in Ostwick.” He patted his mare on the neck, and she gave a soft whinny in response. 

“Ah,” Blackwall said. “You ride more like a soldier than a scholar. That’s all I meant.”

“Well, you can thank my parents for that, too,” Owain responded. “My father had me training to be a knight since I was old enough to hold a sword. They had high hopes for me.” That never came true, he thought, cooly. The anger had burned out of him long ago. 

Blackwall changed the subject- unexpected tact from a man they found wandering the Hinterlands alone. “Have you ever been to Orlais, milord? It’s a bit of a ways from the Marches.”

“I have not.” Owain shook his head. “You?”

“Aye,” Blackwall answered. “My first time in Orlais was a tourney many years ago, when I was a young man. I met a chevalier who took me under his wing and helped me win the grand melee. Even offered to take me on as a squire afterwards.”

“And did you?” Owain asked. “Squire for him, that is.”

“No,” Blackwall replied, nostalgia in his voice. “I was 18, young and foolish. Thought I was invincible, as we all do at that age. But sometimes I think how life might have been different if I had...” He paused and looked up. “Something ahead,” he nodded.

Cassandra had halted in front of them. They were approaching a rise in the land that afforded a clearer view of the road. Owain quickened his pace to catch up with her. 

“Templars,” Cassandra said, nodding down at the route they were following. The fog was thinner here, and Owain could make out two columns of soldiers in robed armor, the sword emblem of the Order emblazoned clearly on their shields and plate and banners. 

“Why march _away_ from Val Royeaux?” Owain asked, noting the direction of their travel. “Shouldn't they be protecting the grand clerics during their meeting?” He looked sideways at Cassandra. “Isn't this… unusual?”

“Highly,” the Seeker replied. She made up her mind about something and shot him a determined glance before urging her horse down the hill. 

“Wait-” Owain started, but it was too late to stop her, so he spurred his horse after her instead. 

Cassandra was riding straight for the head of the line, which had halted on her approach. She slowed as she neared and paced her horse in a small circle as she addressed them. “I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. Who is in command here? Where is Lord Seeker Lucius? Why do you ride away from Val Royeaux?” she demanded, firing her questions one after another. 

“Knight-Captain Denam,” a cruel looking man in high-ranking armor stepped forward and identified himself. “The Divine is dead, Seeker Cassandra, and they say you ride with the man who murdered her.” He spat at the ground and scowled at Owain, who had come to a stop beside her. Owain glared back and tightened his grip on his reins, trying to suppress his desire to set fire to Knight-Captain Denam.

“Lies,” Cassandra asserted, completely unfazed. “Where is the Lord Seeker? I must speak with him. There is a breach in the sky. Templars should be defending Val Royeaux, not abandoning it.”

“You’ll find him in the city, Seeker,” Denam answered, his eyes raking over her with scorn. “Though I doubt he’ll listen to a heretic. We march under his orders, for Therinfall Redoubt.” With that, he shouted an order to his men, and they resumed their march, leaving Cassandra and Owain puzzling and fuming in their wake. 

\--

Lucius proved easy to find. When they arrived in Val Royeaux, they found Chantry leaders set up in the central square, a small crowd gathered around them. Upon spotting Owain and Cassandra, they launched into a speech denouncing the Inquisition and accusing him of false prophecy and murder. So much for Josephine’s mission to win hearts and minds. They had walked into an ambush. 

“I am not your enemy,” Owain said, pitching his voice to reach both the clerics and the crowd. “Our true enemy is the breach. We must unite to stop it and end this chaos before it’s too late!”

While the Revered Mother readied her response, the Lord Seeker and a small group of Templars appeared in the square and approached the dais. Her speech was cut short as one of the Templars struck her in the head. She crumpled to the floor, and the crowd hushed in shock. 

“Is that really necessary?” Owain shouted in anger and disbelief as Lucius descended from the platform. “Is this what the Templars have come to? Abusing old women they’re supposed to be defending?”

Lucius turned his glare on him. “You will not address me, _mage_.” Owain clenched his jaw and reminded himself, repeatedly, that engaging a whole unit of Templars on his own was a bad idea. 

“Lord Seeker,” Cassandra broke in, determined. “We must speak about the breach. The Templars must work with the Inquisition to-”

“You should be ashamed, Seeker Pentaghast,” Lucius interrupted her. “Starting a heretical movement, raising up a mage as a prophet of Andraste. Blasphemy! The breach is indeed a threat, but your Inquisition has no power to do anything about it.” 

“You should all be ashamed!” he continued, addressing the whole crowd now. “The Chantry has failed! They sit here pointing fingers and squabbling amongst themselves while my Templars purge the mage threat. No more will we bow to your control, no more will you leash our righteous swords! From this point forward, the Templars will be a power in their own right. We alone stand against the void!” 

He turned to his men. “Templars! Val Royeaux is no longer worthy of our protection. We march!” They saluted and followed him from the square. 

“That went well,” Owain said to Cassandra. The crowd slowly dispersed, giving them a wide berth and shooting nervous glances as they left. 

“That… was not like him,” Cassandra said, a deep crease in her brow.

“How well do you know Lucius?” Owain asked.

“By reputation, mainly. He took over as the Lord Seeker two years ago following the death of Lord Seeker Lambert,” Cassandra explained. “But he seemed to be a good man. Steady, not one for grandstanding or public gestures. This is very concerning.”

“In more ways than one,” Owain responded. “Now we have the Templars going off on their own, and the Chantry seems more divided than ever. No one will even speak with us.”

Cassandra sighed. “We should return to Haven and inform the others.”

She was right, but their departure would have to wait. They had been in Val Royeaux for little more than an hour. Their horses needed rest and their supplies replenishing, so they headed for a nearby tavern to stay the night. Owain had to admit he was looking forward to a real bed and a roof over his head. 

As they left the square, a tall elven woman in mage robes approached them. “Enchanter Trevelyan,” she called. He paused at the use of his Circle title.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Cassandra addressed her. “Is it wise for you to be here?” 

“I heard about this gathering and wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste for myself,” Fiona answered. Her eyes studied him with an appraising look. “They said he was one of our own, the mage delegate from Ostwick.”

“You weren’t at the Conclave,” Owain said, eyes narrowed, automatically suspicious of her scrutiny. 

“You were supposed to be, yet somehow you avoided death,” Cassandra added, a hint of accusation in her voice. 

“As did the Lord Seeker,” Fiona pointed out. “Both of us sent negotiators in our stead, in case it was a trap. I won’t pretend I’m not glad to be alive. I lost many dear friends that day. It disgusts me to think that the Templars will get away with it. I hope you won’t let them.”

“What makes you so sure they’re to blame?” Owain asked. 

“You saw him,” Fiona replied. “He would gladly kill the Divine to turn people against us. So yes, I think he did it. More than I think _you_ did it, at least. If it’s help with the breach you are looking for, perhaps we could be of service.”

“And how much does this help cost us?” Owain asked. Fiona didn’t seem the type to offer assistance for free.

“Ah, we should talk about that, but not here,” Fiona said. “Consider this an invitation. We would welcome the Inquisition at Redcliffe to discuss terms. You would be among friends there, Lord Herald. Remember that our cause was once your cause. Au revoir.”

 _Friends?_ That, he doubted. _Our cause?_ Perhaps. Her words rang in his head long after she had walked away.


	3. Enchanters and Jennies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra hates parties.

Owain and Cassandra met the rest of their party at the tavern and recounted their conversations with Lucius and Fiona over a late lunch and a well-deserved tankard of ale. The spectacle in the square had announced to the whole city that the Herald of Andraste was in town, and before they had finished their meal, he had received no fewer than two more invitations to meet. Apparently there were people willing to talk to him after all.

The first note came on a damp, folded scrap of parchment plastered to the bottom of his mug. By the time he noticed it, the woman who had served them was long gone. The message was scrawled in wobbly handwriting and bordered with crude doodles. It warned him that he was being watched, gave a time and place, and was signed “Friends of Red Jenny.” He set it aside, unsure what to make of it. 

In stark contrast, the second invitation was hand-delivered by a courier, written on crisp white paper, and sealed with red wax stamped with the symbol of the Circle of Magi. This one came from Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Royal Enchanter to the Orlesian Imperial Court. It was an invitation to a salon, tonight, at the estate of Duke Bastien de Ghislain. 

“Vivienne. I’ve heard of her,” Owain muttered, almost to himself. 

“Do all of you mages know each other?” Varric asked, before taking a pull of ale. 

“No...” Owain replied, choosing to ignore the dwarf’s snark. “But she was trained at Ostwick. The youngest full-fledged mage we ever had, in fact. She transferred to Montsimmard just before I got there.” 

“I’d be careful if I were you. She must be pretty good at The Game, to be a Royal Enchanter,” Varric pointed out.

“The Game?” Owain asked, feeling like he should know what that meant. 

“You know, all the political bullshit they play here in Orlais,” Varric explained. “Nobles and backstabbing and all that.”

“Sounds like Josephine’s territory,” Owain said. “But I think I’ll go. I’d like to hear what this Vivienne has to say. Can’t hurt, can it?”

Varric grunted into his ale. 

“Anyone care to join me?” Owain asked.

“Sorry, Trevelyan,” Varric responded. “I made plans with my Orlesian publisher. She wants to talk business over dinner tonight.”

“Blackwall?”

“Me?” Blackwall replied with a chuckle. “I’m more suited to this tavern than a fancy salon. I haven’t the rank for it, my lord.”

“Cassandra, then.” Owain looked pointedly at the Seeker, who had been studiously avoiding eye contact. 

“No,” she answered. “I detest parties.”

“Please?” Owain pleaded with her. 

“No.”

“You can’t expect me to go alone,” he persisted. “You heard Varric. What if it’s a trap? Would you have my blood on your hands? They'll talk about it tomorrow: ‘The Herald of Andraste, murdered at fancy salon, abandoned by the Inquisition…’”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “Ugh! Fine. I’ll go!” She folded her arms over her chest and glowered at him. 

“Perfect.” He couldn’t help grinning as he finished his lunch. 

\--

Owain was in a playful mood that evening as he climbed the steps to the chateau. Maybe it was because after three weeks with the Inquisition, going to a party seemed refreshingly normal. Maybe it was because even if The Game proved harder than closing rifts, at least he thought he understood the rules. Or maybe it was just the prospect of an evening with Cassandra without the threat of demons or rogue Templars hidden in every shadow. 

“Representing the Inquisition: Senior Enchanter Owain Alexander Trevelyan of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, son of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, Herald of Andraste,” the doorman announced as Owain entered the hall. He waited as Cassandra was introduced. “Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, cousin to King Marcus of Nevarra, Right Hand of the Divine.”

The room had high ceilings lit with glittering chandeliers and a grand staircase that scrolled down its center. String music was playing from somewhere, and a couple dozen people were gathered in small groups around the perimeter.

“Are all those names yours, Cassandra?” he smirked as she entered the ballroom behind him. “And are you really Nevarran royalty? Should I have been calling you “Your Highness” this entire time?”

She rolled her eyes and made that disgusted noise that only encouraged him. “Hardly. I’m a member of the royal family, yes, but the Pentaghasts are a large clan. Half of Cumberland could say the same.”

“Really?” Owain asked, with genuine curiosity.

“No, but it feels that way,” she sighed. “There are so many of us that they need charts to show how we are all related, and they have them, oh yes. Pentaghasts value their precious blood more than anything.”

“Not so different from some Trevelyans,” Owain said, flagging down a passing servant with a tray of wine. “But if we’re going to talk about our families, I may need a drink first.”

“ _That_ I can agree with,” Cassandra said, accepting the glass he offered. 

Owain still wanted to know about her background. “Do you ever see your family?” he asked. “Do you miss Nevarra?”

“I had a very sheltered life as a child,” Cassandra explained. “My brother and I were raised by my uncle, who treated me like a porcelain doll to be protected and kept safe. When I grew older, I realized that I had never really seen much of Nevarra- the real Nevarra, that is. So I can't say I miss it at all.” She paused and then continued. “And you? Do you consider Ostwick home? Would you wish to go back if you could?”

Owain stared into his glass a moment before responding. “In a way, yes. But I lived in the Circle for most of my life, and I’m not sure I would really call that Ostwick. There’s no going back to my life before the Circle, so now I suppose home is wherever I am.” He drained half his wine. Cassandra had a curious way of drawing complete honesty from him, even things he didn’t readily admit to himself. 

He looked up and was comforted by the understanding in her eyes. “That’s how I feel as well,” she said. “My brother Anthony was the only thing keeping me in Nevarra, and when he was gone, so was I.”

“What happened to Anthony?” he asked.

“I’d rather not talk about him now- not here,” she replied, her voice going soft. “Another time, perhaps.”

He opened his mouth to ask another question, but they were interrupted by a pair of other guests wearing gilded masks and Orlesian formalwear trimmed in ruffles and silk. His standard-issue Inquisition coat and Cassandra’s worn armor must look rather dingy in comparison, he realized. 

“The Inquisition!” the woman exclaimed. “How fascinating! It is not often we get new people at these parties. Are you here to see Madame de Fer? Or perhaps Duke Bastien?”

“Madame de Fer?” Owain guessed.

“Yes, that our name for Vivienne,” the masked man replied. “She is a force of nature in the Imperial Court.”

“We have heard the most intriguing stories,” the woman broke in. “They say that when the veil opened, Andraste herself delivered you from the Fade! Is it true?” 

“Absolutely!” Owain responded, smiling his biggest, fakest smile. “I was trapped in the Fade and set upon by demons until Andraste saved me and tossed me back out. Surprisingly strong for a woman who was burned to death a thousand years ago.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. The Orlesian woman looked enraptured. He could see Cassandra frowning at him from the corner of his eye.

“And is it true that you have the power to close the tear in the sky? That the Inquisition is building an army to save the world?” the woman asked, nearly breathless with excitement.

“The Inquisition? What a load of pig shit!” Another masked Orlesian man came down the grand staircase and interrupted them. “Everyone knows it’s just an excuse for a bunch of political misfits to seize power. Washed up sisters, crazed Seekers, rebel mages. What can _you_ hope to accomplish?”

“Exactly what we've said: closing the breach and restoring order to the world. Exactly what _needs_ to be done but what only _we_ seem willing to do,” Owain said, turning serious and growing increasingly tired of repeating the same old speech. How many times did they need to explain themselves? The man stepped up to him as the first couple backed away. Cassandra moved closer, but Owain gave her a slight shake of his head, and she stopped. He didn’t want her to intervene just yet. 

“Impossible,” the man said, looking him up and down. “And you, the one they call the Herald of Andraste, claiming to speak the Maker’s will while foul magic flows from your hands? Magic that killed the Most Holy Divine? How dare you!” He reached for the sword on his back and brought his face within inches of Owain’s. “If you were a man of honor, you would step outside and answer the charges!” Owain flexed his fingers into a fist. He was getting tired of everyone in this city calling him a liar and a murderer. They had left their weapons at the door, but he could easily burn this man to a crisp, even without a staff.

But before he could act, he heard a loud _whoosh!_ and a _crack!_ and the man was frozen in place where he stood, one hand still on his sword. Cold air blew off him. Owain stepped back, extinguishing the flames he had readied in his right hand. 

A tall, imperious woman descended the stairs, cutting a regal figure in a horned crown and snow white robes that set off the ebony of her complexion. The remains of an ice spell swirled around her fingers. “My dear Marquis,” she addressed the frozen Orlesian. “How unkind, to use such language in _my_ home, to _my_ guests. You know such rudeness is intolerable.” She brought her hand up to cup his chin. “Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?”

“I beg your pardon, Madame Vivienne,” the Marquis croaked.

“You are the wounded party here,” she said, turning to Owain. “What would you have me do with our friend?”

“You saved me the trouble,” he responded, nodding at the Marquis. “But I couldn’t care less what you do with him.”

“Very well,” she said, and snapped her fingers, releasing him from her spell. “Go home, Marquis, and be sure to give my regards to your aunt.” He scuttled away, coughing and clutching at his chest.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said. “I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Orlesian Imperial Court.”

“A pleasure, Madame de Fer,” Owain replied, sketching a formal bow. 

Vivienne nodded. “I’m so glad you could join us this evening, Enchanter Trevelyan, Lady Cassandra. I’ve so wanted to meet you.” She looked at Owain. “Perhaps we could have a word in private?”

Owain shot Cassandra an apologetic look. She crossed her arms and inclined her head with a sigh, resigned to fend for herself among the curious, fawning Orlesians. He followed Vivienne to a hallway near the back of the ballroom. It was quiet there, and dark except for some faint light from the mullioned windows that ran its length. 

“You are from the Circle at Ostwick, aren’t you, my dear?” Vivienne asked as they walked. “Enchanter Lydia is a dear friend of mine. Did you know her?”

“We are acquainted,” Owain said and left it at that. He had nothing positive to add- Lydia was a gossip, manipulative and overly concerned with Circle politics. If her opinions on mage rights were any indication of her friend’s, this conversation might not go as smoothly as expected. Like everything else lately... 

Vivienne stopped at the far end of the hall and turned to him. “You may have guessed, but I didn’t invite you here for pleasantries,” she began. “With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might have the power to restore sanity and order, and as the leader of the remaining loyal mages of Thedas, I thought I could lend my assistance to your cause.”

“ _Loyal_ mages?” Owain asked, brows arched. “Loyal to _whom_ exactly?”

“Why, the people of Thedas, of course,” Vivienne answered. “We have not forgotten, as _some_ have, that magic exists to serve man, not the other way around.”

She was baiting him, but he bit anyway. “And are those with magic not men, too?” Owain responded. “Shouldn’t we be allowed to live our lives? To have families and futures? To be free from the oppression of the Chantry and the Templars?” 

“Oppression? Hardly,” she sniffed, waving off his argument. “I’ve made a life here in Val Royeaux and serve as an adviser to the Empress. And you certainly seem free enough to come and go as you please.”

“That’s easy to say while you stand here in your chateau!” he said, his blood starting to heat. “You and I are exceptions to the rule- I would hardly call our experiences typical. And if it not for the rebellion and the Conclave, I would still be in that tower like the rest.” 

“You and I have also been trained to control our gifts and use them safely,” she replied. Her expression was still all cool composure. “Mages are not like ordinary people, my dear. Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous. Anyone who forgets that truth gets burned. Kirkwall gave the world a reason to remember its fear of magic. A mage killed hundreds of people with a snap of his fingers.”

“Not entirely without reason,” Owain argued. “I don’t condone what he did, but certainly the Chantry and the Templars have a share of blame in what happened in Kirkwall, too. Would you go back to the way things were? Restore the Circles, lock the doors, and give the keys back to the Templars? You would open us to the same kind of abuse that drove us to rise in the first place.” 

“And you forget that the Circles protect both mages _and_ the people outside,” said Vivienne. “Young mages need a place to learn and study so they will not be a danger to themselves or others. We need an institution to protect and nurture magic. Maker knows, magic will find neither on its own.”

“Perhaps on that we can agree,” Owain conceded. “But there must be a better way. Mages must have _some_ say in their destinies, whether that be the Circle or something like it, or something else entirely. We must be able to govern ourselves, to have some amount of choice in our lives, just as other free people in Thedas.”

“How very idealistic of you,” Vivienne said, her eyes studying him as if for the first time. “In any case, I did not invite you here to discuss the mage rebellion either. The breach is a greater threat to all of us, and it must be dealt with, no matter what comes next. You will need the help I can offer before this is over.”

“Very well,” Owain said and sighed out his anger. She was right. He had to admit that despite their disagreements, Vivienne’s magical skill and political acumen would be assets to have on their side, at least for now. He couldn’t afford to turn her away. “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

“A wise choice, my dear,” she responded with a smile. “I’ll see you in Haven.” 

\--

Owain and Cassandra collected their weapons and made their way back to the city. As they reached the outskirts, a voice called out: “Halt!”

A man stepped forward with a torch and a sword in his hands. The light reflected off his mask. “The famous Herald of Andraste,” he said in an Orlesian accent. “You never answered my offer to settle this with honor. So we will settle it another way.”

It was the Marquis from earlier. Owain cursed himself for not letting Vivienne kill him. The man wasn’t alone either. Four more figures emerged from the shadows. Owain reached for his staff. 

“Ah. I’m afraid not,” the Marquis said, motioning to one of his goons. The man stepped forward with a bow, his arrow nocked and trained at Cassandra, who had frozen in a defensive stance with her sword half-drawn. “Hands off your weapon, mage, or your lady will pay the price.” The other three advanced on them, cutting off escape on all sides. 

Owain scoffed and exchanged a glance with the Seeker. “If I’m the one you’re worried about, you really don’t know who you’re dealing with.” 

The archer shifted his eyes and his aim between Owain and Cassandra, like he wasn’t sure which of them was the bigger threat. In that moment of hesitation, Cassandra sprang into action. She turned suddenly and slammed her shoulder into the nearest man, taking him by surprise and knocking him to the ground. A second man stepped forward as she drew her sword, just in time to parry his axe as it swung toward her. She leapt backwards then and pulled her shield off her back before moving in again for a strike of her own. 

Her movements were fluid and full of a deadly kind of grace, but Owain did not have time to watch. He grabbed his staff as the archer made up his mind and loosed an arrow at him. Owain fade-stepped to flank him, dropped a fire mine, and then shoved him hard in the back with his staff. Caught off guard and off balance, the archer stumbled forward and fell screaming to the ground as the mine exploded into flames around him. 

While Owain focused on the archer, the Marquis and his remaining man rushed him with their swords. The Marquis managed a glancing cut down his forearm before Owain fade-stepped again to put some distance between them. Adrenaline was suppressing the pain for now, but he could feel blood dripping down his wrist, and it was as if all the anger and humiliation and frustration of the day flowed out with it. He cast a wall of flames behind the men and boxed them in with more mines. He hurled fireballs and conjured flames from the ground, pushing his mana to its limit. Spells flew from his fingertips with a fury beyond what was strictly necessary for low-level thugs like these. It was overkill, and he knew it. And he didn't care. 

It was over quickly. Three bodies lay on the ground in front of him, the cobblestones scorched by his flames. Cassandra stepped over to him, sheathing her sword and leaving behind two bodies of her own. Her brow creased as she looked from him to the swath of destruction he'd made and back. He panted and clutched his left wrist, trying to staunch the bleeding from his wound. He sank to his knees, exhausted.

They heard a low groan, and one of the bodies twitched. The Marquis- he lived still. Cassandra moved closer and pulled his mask off. He was younger than Owain imagined. “Please,” he whispered. Cassandra drew her sword, but before she could swing it, an arrow _thunked_ into his neck, silencing him forever. 

Owain and Cassandra looked in the direction of the shot, guards up again. An elven woman with choppy blonde hair and dirty armor stepped from the shadows with a bow. “Put him out of his misery, yeah?” she said, walking over to pull the arrow out and examine the tip. Her words seemed to trip over themselves as she talked to herself. “Rich tits, always wanting more than they deserve. But with no breeches! Hahahaha, no breeches!”

She turned and looked at Owain. “Are you the one that glows? The Herald thingy? You’re early.”

“Herald thingy? Early?” Owain replied, slightly dazed with pain and very confused by this turn of events. “Early for what? Who are you?”

“Didn’t you get the note?” she asked. “Ah well, I guess you followed it well enough. It’s all good, innit?” 

Owain remembered the other invitation from this afternoon and slowly pieced it together. “So you're the one who sent that note. Does this mean you're Red Jenny?”

“What?” the elf answered. “No! The name’s Sera. And, the Friends of Red Jenny- that’s me. Well, I’m one. So’s a bunch of other people. But it’s just a name, yeah? It lets people be a part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. I mean people people, not like your people, not like mask face here. Little people. _Real_ people.”

“What do you and your friends want from us?” Owain asked, still not seeing where this was going. 

“You’re the Herald of Andraste, yeah?” she said. “You’re a strange one. You do all kinds of creepy magic, and you’ve got that glowy green thing on your hand. But I want to get everything back to normal like you do. So I’d like to join.”

“Join the Inquisition?” Owain said, brows raised. He looked at Cassandra, whose silent expression radiated disapproval. Yet, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he liked this Sera. 

“Look, here’s how it is,” Sera added. “You important people are up here, shoving your cods all around. ‘I’ll crush you!’ ‘No, I’ll crush you!’ Ahem. But if you don’t listen down here, too, you risk losing your breeches, like these ones. I’ll use my friends to help you. Plus arrows. Look, do you need people, or what?”

“Alright, alright. Join us then,” Owain said. He’d already made one questionable alliance this evening, why not another?

“Yes!” She threw her arms up. “Get in good before you're too big to like! That should keep your breeches where they should be! Plus extras, because I’ve got all these… hah. You’ve got merchants that buy all that stuff, yeah? They gotta be worth something. Haven, right? I’ll be there. This is gonna be grand!” 

Sera flitted away into the dark, leaving Owain and Cassandra to make sense of what just happened. Cassandra shook her head and frowned. “Are you sure that was wise, Herald?” she said as she helped him to his feet. 

“Not at all,” he said, wincing at the pain in his arm. “What was all that about breeches? Anyway, that’s two new recruits for the Inquisition tonight. Josephine can’t be too displeased with us, right?”

“Ugh.” Cassandra made a disgusted noise and wrapped her arm around his waist, supporting him as they walked slowly back to the tavern for the night.

He stopped suddenly, struck by a thought. “Breeches. Too many breeches...” And what had he been saying all day? “More like, too many _breaches!_ ” He snorted, and then laughed, uncontrollably, all the way back to the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue is hard. o_O


	4. Among Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owain and Cassandra get acquainted the best way they know how. Plus, a familiar face in Redcliffe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter this time. Thanks for reading!

“Lord Trevelyan, a word, if you please?” Josephine asked as they were leaving the war room. Owain had just finished giving his report on Val Royeaux. 

“ _Lord_ Trevelyan,” he mused as he followed her into her office. “I keep thinking that's my father. You know no one’s ever called me that? It’s been a long time since I’ve even had any right to that name.”

“It is a courtesy to your birth, my lord, even if you are a mage,” Josephine answered. “Would you prefer ‘Herald of Andraste’?”

“Ah,” he smiled. “Anything but that.”

They sat down on opposite sides of the desk. Josephine gestured at the pitcher in front of her. Owain nodded, and she poured wine for each of them. 

Owain picked up his cup and took a sip. “Where did you manage to find wine like this in Haven?” he asked. 

“I brought it with me all the way from Antiva,” said Josephine, sniffing her cup and closing her eyes for a moment. She opened them again and sighed. “One must have some reminders of home to take one’s mind off the surroundings. And the cold. And the wildlife. And the lack of civilization for miles around.” She sighed again. “Why anyone would choose here to live here, I cannot imagine. I hope you don’t find our accommodations too… rustic for one of your station.” 

“Me?” Owain laughed. “The Circle is hardly the lap of luxury, I assure you. Haven suits me just fine.”

“What was it like to live in the Circle, if I might ask?” Josephine said. “Ostwick’s Circle had a reputation for being rather sedate.”

“That’s… one way to put it, I suppose,” he replied, watching the wine swirl in his cup. “It wasn’t a bad place to grow up. You study, they teach you how to use your magic. Assuming you pass your Harrowing, of course. And get over the trauma of being ripped from your family and everything you’ve ever known to live in a glorified prison for the rest of your life.”

“I see,” she said. There was sympathy in her eyes. “But your parents, surely they could have made arrangements to see you or for you to visit home?”

“Oh, I’m sure they could have,” he said, bitterly. “There are Trevelyans in every branch of the Chantry, and there were any number of connections they might have used, if they wanted to. But they didn’t.”

“Well. Perhaps that answers my questions, then.” 

Owain looked at her quizzically, and she handed him a sheaf of parchment. He read the top page. It was a letter, from some Trevelyan he didn’t recognize, claiming family ties and offering support in exchange for lightly veiled favors. He flipped through the rest of the stack- they were all like this. He threw them back on the desk in disgust. 

“How do they even know who I am?” he complained. “The Conclave was only a few weeks ago.”

“Word travels quickly, my lord,” Josephine explained. “And your... display in Val Royeaux has certainly raised our profile. The nobility have taken note of your ancestry. It gives the Inquisition some legitimacy, though not as much as we’d hoped.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“You must understand, among the Orlesian nobility, family and rank can mean everything,” she replied. “And we must win support among them for the Inquisition to succeed. However, you are from Ostwick. Orlesian nobles consider the Free Marches somewhat… quaint.”

“ _That’s_ the problem? It doesn’t bother them that I’m a mage?”

“Even that is forgivable, under the right circumstances,” she said.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. _Maker._ Was there no escaping these games? 

Josephine continued. “I was going to ask about your parents, whether we should approach them for their formal support of the Inquisition. But, given our earlier conversation...” 

“No. Absolutely not,” he said, firmly, sitting back up. “Nothing good will come of it. I can only imagine how my father will react to the news that his failure mage son is the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ I can't decide whether he'll relish the opportunity or if his head will explode in anger. Possibly both.”

Josephine sighed, clearly a little disappointed. “Very well. I will find another way to grow our support. And what about these letters? Would you like me to respond?” 

“Do whatever you like. Burn them, for all I care.” He finished the last of his wine and stood up. “Thanks for the drink.”

\--

He walked down to the outer gates of Haven, where he knew she would be. He found her practicing on a straw dummy, and he stood back to watch, folding his arms across his chest. Cassandra grunted and brought her sword down on the neck, nearly taking its head off.

“I hope that wasn’t meant to be me,” he said with a smirk.

She looked up and lowered her sword. “If it was, you would know it,” she said, coming over to him. “How is your arm?”

“This? Practically good as new, hardly even a scar,” he said, pulling up his left sleeve to show her. The mark on his hand crackled faintly, and he flinched involuntarily. 

“And your mark?” she asked, noticing. “Does it bother you?” 

“If you mean physically, not as much as you’d think,” Owain quipped. “As for everything else, well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

She said nothing for a moment and just looked at him with that penetrating gaze of hers. “So. Are you just going to watch me practice, or would you like to join me?” She gestured toward a spare sword and shield leaning against a nearby tent. “Blackwall told me you know how to use these.”

He hesitated. He _used_ to know, but that was a very long time ago. On the other hand, did he really want to turn down a chance to spar with Cassandra? “Sure. Why not?” he shrugged. He removed his staff and stuck it in a snowbank. He picked up the sword and shield and hefted them, taking a few tentative swings at the air and trying to dredge up 20-year-old muscle memories. 

He held up his shield and took a fighting stance. Cassandra squared up in front of him. They paced in a slow circle. He struck first, attempting a quick blow at her left side, which she parried effortlessly. She retaliated with a swing to his right, which he was forced to block with his shield. The impact reverberated up his arm. 

He rushed forward for a heavier strike, which she parried again, and in the opening, she bashed him with her shield, knocking him backwards. He stumbled and sat, hard, on the ground. 

She stood back, waiting for him, weapons up and eyes focused. He looked down at the weapons in his hands and was struck by how _wrong_ this felt. He was clumsy. He was dull. He was slow. These movements belonged to a different version of him. A different body, a different life. He looked over at his staff and decided. He stood and walked over to it, tossing the sword and shield to the ground. He pulled out the staff, spun it around his hand, and caught it. He smiled. _Much better._

He walked back to Cassandra and took up his position opposite her. Her brows raised, and he thought he saw a flicker of amusement before she brought her attention back to their match. 

They danced around each other again, Owain more sure of his steps this time. It was she who attacked first, moving quickly to slash at him with her sword. He saw her coming and fade-stepped to the side, hurling a series of fireballs in his wake, which she easily dodged. He contemplated his next move. Unlike practice swords that could be blunted, his magic tended to be all or nothing, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt her. 

He looked around and realized they had drawn a crowd. Inquisition soldiers and scouts formed a loose ring around them. Some still held weapons, distracted from their own practice, no doubt. Even Cullen stood at the fringes, looking slightly guilty but as interested as the rest. 

_Time to put on a show, then._ He cloaked himself in ice armor and fade-stepped toward Cassandra, wielding his staff blade first, like a spear. He swiped at her feet, and she jumped aside, stepping around his flank with her sword raised. He whirled to block her, holding the staff with both hands and catching the edge of her blade with the metal grip. He pushed her back, and they separated, circling again. 

He lunged with his staff, darting forwards and back, once by her right shoulder, once by her left, then at her right hip. She matched each of his thrusts, parrying the first and the second, and blocking the third with her shield. She knocked his blade aside with her sword and stepped in with her shield, slamming it into his block. He stumbled back a few steps, the strength of her blows again sending shockwaves up his arms. 

They were both breathing heavily now. Sweat was dripping down his temple, despite the cold Haven air. He needed a new strategy. There was no way he could beat her in straight combat like this. 

He rolled his shoulders and squared up to her again. He threw more fireballs, one after another, and she dodged them as deftly as before. He knew they wouldn’t hit her, but that wasn’t his point now. He aimed a few at the ground, melting the packed snow around her feet. Then he moved in with his staff and cast an ice spell, freezing the ground beneath her. He slashed again at her feet, and again she jumped, but this time the frozen ground betrayed her. She slipped and fell to her knees. 

Owain brought his staff down for one more blow, expecting to end the match. To his surprise, Cassandra brought her shield up to block it, and with a scream of fury, she pushed herself back to her feet and rushed at him. This sudden onslaught was too much for him. He deflected her first few attacks and blocked the next, but one final shield bash sent him reeling to the dirt. He looked up to see the tip of her blade in his face. He yielded. 

Owain lay on the ground for a moment, catching his breath and mentally assessing the damage. There was sure to be a nasty bruise on his shoulder in a few hours and some holes in his coat that needed mending. That wasn’t so bad, all things considered.

“Back to work! All of you!” He could hear Cullen barking at his men to return to their duties. Did that man ever take breaks?

Cassandra offered her hand to help him off the ground. “You were holding back,” she said. He took it and hauled himself over to one of the practice dummies. He sat at its foot and leaned his head back against the post, resting his staff across his knees. 

“So were you,” he said, looking up at her. 

She smiled at him, and it was instantly the best thing that had happened to him all day. The last several days, if he was honest with himself. 

She sat down and leaned against the other dummy. She looked as winded as he was. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked. “I have never seen a Circle mage move that way.”

“Here and there,” he said, lightly. “Some from other mages, some I just made up, mixed in with weapons training from my youth. I wasn’t as into books as the others, so I would practice on my own. There's a lot of time to experiment, cooped up in a tower. It’s proven useful since the rebellion.” 

“I expect it has,” she responded, simply. 

“What about you?” he asked. “You're quite impressive.”

“Are you complimenting me? she asked, amused. 

“I'm trying to,” he said, smiling. “Did they teach you all of that at Seeker school?”

“Some, but not all,” she replied. “My brother Anthony started teaching me swordsmanship long before I joined the Seekers. He was a dragon hunter, brave and honorable. He was everything a Pentaghast was supposed to be, and I idolized him. We used to dream about hunting together, brother and sister, vanquishing the beasts of old.” 

“You mentioned him when we were in Orlais,” he recalled. “What happened to him?” 

“He died,” she said, and her eyes went distant. “A group of apostates wanted him to get dragon blood for them, and he refused. So they killed him for it, right in front of me. After that, I begged the Chantry to let me become a Templar, to fight mages and avenge him. They sent me to Seeker training instead.”

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” he said, with genuine remorse. “I had no idea it was a painful memory. I shouldn’t have pried.” 

“It’s alright,” she said, turning to him again. “I think sometimes about what my life would be like if he had lived. Would I really be hunting dragons? Or would I be married to some noble? A mother of three? I believe the Maker has a plan, but… the path is not always easy.”

“Do you hate mages, for what they did to your brother?” he asked. “Because I might, if that had happened to me.”

“No,” she sighed. “I was angry at first. And for a long time, I wanted revenge. But I know, now, that mages are simply human, flawed like the rest of us.”

“Indeed.” He had learned that truth, too. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The clang and clash of Cullen's soldiers in the practice ring was the only sound in the air. He could feel his heart rate slowing and the breeze starting to feel cold on his skin. He turned to Cassandra again. 

“So, what is a Seeker, exactly? Are you like some kind of super Templar?” 

“The Seekers of Truth were formed from the first Inquisition and charged with watching over the Templars,” she said. “We were supposed to be incorruptible and above reproach, though the reality falls considerably short of that ideal.”

“As it often does,” he agreed. “Seems like you could have done a better job watching the Templars. Are your powers like theirs?”

“No, our abilities are different- theirs come from lyrium and are designed to hunt mages,” she explained. “Ours come from years of ritual and training. We cannot be possessed by demons and are immune to mind control. Some also gain other gifts, but that depends on the individual.”

“What gifts do you have?”

“I can set the lyrium in a person’s blood aflame,” she said. “Both mages and Templars bend before my will. Some Seekers use it to interrogate or paralyze. Rarely, some can use it to kill.”

 _Well, shit-- that was terrifying._ He ran his hand through his hair and smirked. “So could you do that to me? Could you bend _me_ to your will?”

“Don't tempt me,” she said. And she smiled again. 

\--

Owain had lobbied hard for the Inquisition to let him meet with the free mages at Redcliffe. They should at least hear the offer, he argued, and given Lucius’s attitude in Val Royeaux, they had no reason to expect a better reception at Therinfall. 

He was surprised, then, to walk into the Gull and Lantern with Cassandra, Blackwall, and Sera and find that they had been completely unexpected. Grand Enchanter Fiona had no recollection at all about meeting him in Val Royeaux or issuing an invitation to Redcliffe. It was baffling. More troubling still was the news that the mages had already formed an alliance with a Tevinter Magister. 

“You can’t be serious!” Owain said. Disappointment, disbelief, and anger boiled in his blood. “Wasn’t our purpose to convince the rest of Thedas that mages can be trusted to govern ourselves? That magic is not a threat? And you pledge yourselves to the enemy of us all. The one nation that proves the danger of a society led by mages!”

Something else was also unsettling him. There were a handful of other rebel mages gathered in the room. Lieutenants or other leaders, he guessed. Among them was a familiar face. 

_Althea._ His first and oldest friend at the Circle, one of the few people he trusted in his life. They had grown up together, coming through their Harrowings and rising up the ranks as peers. They had been lovers, too--on and off--though that had ended for good a few years ago. 

Her face lit when she saw him and settled into a smug half-smile while he tried to concentrate on his conversation with Fiona. Seeing her here was surreal, his life in the Circle colliding with his life in the Inquisition. 

“What choice did we have, Enchanter Trevelyan?” Fiona said, trying to explain her decision. “We had nowhere else to turn. I have children and elderly under my care. We needed food, shelter, simple necessities. Redcliffe offered us refuge for a time, but the people’s patience with us has worn thin.” 

“The Inquisition could have provided all of that,” Owain replied, letting frustration show in his voice. “And we would have received you as equals. No need to enslave yourselves to us like the Magisters.”

“Then I sorely regret you did not come sooner,” Fiona said. She seemed exhausted and deflated. This was not the woman he had met in Orlais. 

“It’s not too late,” he said, refusing to give up. “We still need your assistance to close the breach. We could still offer you an alliance.”

Fiona bowed her head. “As one indentured to a Tevinter Magister, I’m afraid I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.” 

Owain stood there, speechless. Had they really come all this way for nothing? Had the mage rebellion truly sold itself to Tevinter? 

He turned his head as the door opened behind him. A middle-aged man in hooded red and yellow robes entered the inn, followed by a younger man in similar dress. The older man walked authoritatively to the front of the room. 

“Agents of the Inquisition,” he addressed Owain and his party. “I am Magister Gereon Alexius. I command the mages of Southern Thedas. If you wish their assistance in closing the breach, then you must negotiate with me.”

Owain narrowed his eyes. “How did a Tevinter Magister come to command the Southern mages?”

“I heard about the tragedy at the Conclave--one I hear _you_ had the good fortune to survive--and I came immediately to Redcliffe to see how I might be of assistance to my fellow mages at such a difficult time,” Alexius explained, smoothly. “It could only have been divine providence that we arrived when we did.”

“Yes, what perfect timing,” Owain said, with not a small dose of sarcasm. “Well, if you want to negotiate, let's negotiate.”

“Of course,” the Magister smiled. “It’s always good to meet a reasonable man.” He turned to the younger man beside him. “Felix, would you send for a scribe? Apologies for my manners, Herald. This is my son, Felix.” The younger man bowed.

Owain nodded and turned back to Alexius. “I think you're aware of what the Inquisition intends to do?”

“Yes, closing the breach is no small task,” Alexius said. “It will take a considerable amount of magical power, and there's no telling how many mages you might require.”

The Magister held the upper hand in this negotiation, and it was clear that he knew it. Owain tried to think what he had to offer. He feared the price would be too dear.

Felix returned, but as he moved toward them, he appeared to faint. Owain caught him before he hit the floor, and Felix pressed a scrap of paper into his hand before struggling to his feet. 

Alexius rushed to his son. “My apologies, Herald,” he said. “My son is not well. We will conclude these negotiations at another time. I will be in contact with the Inquisition.” And then he left, as abruptly as he had entered, supporting his son with one arm. He called to Fiona, and she followed them out the door.

Owain looked at the note in his hand. It was a warning and a request to meet in the Redcliffe Chantry. So many notes like this, lately. He tucked it discretely into his pocket.

“Owain.” Althea wrapped him in a tight embrace and kissed him. He pulled back and darted his eyes to Cassandra, who looked quickly away. Althea followed his gaze and quirked an eyebrow before bringing her focus back to him. “ _Maker._ I thought you were dead. And then you turn up _here_ , with the _Inquisition_ , of all things.” Her eyes roved over him, and she smirked. “I've seen you look worse.”

Likewise, he thought, with a smile. She was dressed for travel, in riding breeches and a leather coat. Her long, wavy brown hair was tamed in a low ponytail that cascaded down her shoulder. Althea was a beautiful woman. And she knew it.

He remembered his manners and introduced Cassandra and the rest of his party. “This is Senior Enchanter Althea of the Ostwick Circle of Magi.”

“Former,” she corrected him. “There _are_ no Circles anymore.”

“Thea, what are you doing here?” Owain asked. “How did it come to this? Tevinter? Really?”

She looked at him a moment. “Let me buy you a drink, and we’ll talk.” They settled at a corner table on the second floor. She sat next to him, with Cassandra, Blackwall, and Sera opposite. 

Owain reached for his mug of ale, and Althea caught hold of his hand. “What's this?” she said, holding his palm open and prodding the mark, which glowed green in the dim tavern. 

Ordinarily, he took her physical familiarity for granted, but with Cassandra sitting stone-faced across the table, he felt hyper-aware of every touch. He withdrew his hand. “To be honest, we don't really know, but it's why I'm here. All I can remember is that I escaped the Fade and came out with this. And it's the key to closing the breach.” He proceeded to update her on his life since the Conclave.

Althea listened with interest. “Do you really think you can do it? Close all the rifts?”

“We have to,” Owain replied. “But we’ll need the mages to do it.”

“Alexius will make sure you pay for it,” she cautioned.

“I know,” Owain said. “You never answered my question. How did you get here? And what happened that made an alliance with Tevinter sound like a good idea?”

Althea sighed. “I left Ostwick right after the Conclave. We all thought you were dead, and that for sure the Chantry would find a way to pin it all on the mages. We went into hiding, and they sent me here to find out what to do next. I was told Alexius arrived two days after the Conclave. It was all settled by the time I got here. And now I’m supposed to go back and bring the rest of our group here.”

“Here's what I don't understand,” Owain said. “We saw Fiona in Val Royeaux a week ago. She asked me to come here and meet with her, and she made no mention of any Tevinter alliance. It just doesn't make any sense. Something's not right here.”

She shook her head. “I believe you, but I need more to go on than your feeling, Owain. I can't even believe you've been alive this whole time. It's been bad for us since you left. The Templars have been making more raids. We've got children to take care of, the injured. I know this is a shit plan, but it’s the only one we’ve got.”

“Don't do it Thea, don't bring them here,” he pleaded with her. “Come to the Inquisition. We’ll take care of you. You don't even have to believe me. Just wait. Wait until we get to the bottom of this Tevinter thing. I'll send you word.”

She looked at him for a long moment and then set her jaw. “Alright. We’ll wait.” She stood up. “I should go.” She kissed his cheek. “You’d better be right, Owain Trevelyan.” She turned to look at Cassandra with a knowing smile. Then she nodded to Blackwall and Sera and left.

As soon as she was gone, Sera spoke, like the words were bursting out of her. “Hey Herald, did you and her used to _do... things?_ ” she said, while making rude gestures with her fingers. 

“Sera!” Cassandra rebuked her. 

She blew a raspberry at Cassandra and looked at Owain, who was covering his eyes with his hand. She gasped. “You _did!_ ” 

“That was a long time ago, Sera...” he mumbled, drinking his ale and refusing to look up.

“What happened? Did she dump you? I bet she dumped you.” 

He said nothing, just continued rubbing his eyes with his fingers. 

“No? You dumped her? You kicked _that_ out of your bed?” Her eyes went wide with disbelief. Then she started laughing hysterically, falling backwards off the bench. Blackwall smiled into his cup. Cassandra just furrowed her brows and looked at Owain, deep in thought.

Owain sighed and then cleared his throat. “Anyway. You should all take a look at this.” He pulled Felix’s note from his coat and handed it to Cassandra. She scanned it quickly before passing it to Blackwall. 

“This could be a trap,” she said. “But you will go anyway.”

“Am I already so predictable?” Owain said, with a wry smile. “Felix did take pains to hide it from his father. And I need to know what's going on here.”

Cassandra sighed and stood up, adjusting the shield on her back. “To the Chantry, then.”

\--

Owain pushed open the heavy, iron-clad door to the Redcliffe Chantry and was immediately hit with the smell of sulfur and burning flesh. A large, glowing rift took up the front of the sanctuary. A lone mage was brandishing his staff, beating back the spawning demons. The room was a mess, broken pews and debris everywhere. 

They drew their weapons and joined the fray, but there was something odd about this rift. Several of his spells missed their mark, moving either more slowly or more quickly than expected. He looked around and could see the others struggling with the same thing. Sera’s arrows were flying wide. Cassandra missed an easy hit, and Blackwall narrowly caught an unexpected blow with his shield.

Even with these anomalies, they managed to defeat the demons and close the rift. The unnamed mage marveled as Owain lowered his hand. “How does that work?” he asked.

Owain struggled for a moment with how much to tell this stranger, while the man moved into the silence. 

“You don't even know, do you?” he said, smiling. “You just wiggle your fingers and the rift closes! Remarkable!”

Owain regained his composure. “Who are you? I was expecting Felix.”

“Of course you were,” the man said. “I'm getting ahead of myself. I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?” He bowed. 

“Another Tevinter,” Cassandra warned. “Be cautious, Herald.”

“Suspicious friends you have,” Dorian quipped.

“Excuse us if we’re a little wary,” Owain replied, crossing his arms. “We haven’t had an easy time with your countrymen today.”

“Ah, you mean Alexius,” Dorian said. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor. And by ‘once’ I mean that he's not anymore. I’m uniquely qualified to help you, and you _will_ need my help, I assure you.”

“Help for what?” Owain asked. 

“Haven't you wondered how Alexius was able to claim the allegiance of the Southern mages out from under you?” Dorian asked. “How he conveniently managed to arrive in Redcliffe just after the Conclave? It seems he would have had to distort time itself, no? Well that's exactly what he's doing.”

“Mages have been attempting to manipulate time for centuries,” Owain said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s impossible. No one has ever succeeded.”

“I know what I’m talking about,” Dorian insisted. “I helped him develop this magic, though it was just theory at the time. He must have gotten it to work. But what I still don’t get is _why_. It’s an awful lot of trouble just to gain a few hundred lackeys.”

“He didn’t do it for them,” Felix said, joining them.

Dorian smiled. “Took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card,” Felix replied. “I thought he would be fussing over me all day.” He turned to Owain and continued. “My father’s joined a cult of Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the Venatori. Everything he’s done, he’s done it to get to you.”

“All this, for me?” Owain said, breathing out a laugh. “I’m flattered. But why tell me all this? Why would the two of you betray your father and your mentor?”

“I love my father,” Felix replied. “And like Dorian, I love my country. But these Venatori are extremists, and what my father is doing is far too dangerous.”

“The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable,” Dorian added. “You saw how the rift you just closed seemed to twist time onto itself? How it sped some things up and slowed other things down? Soon there will be more like that. We already have a hole in the sky. We can't afford a hole in time, too.”

“No, indeed,” Owain sighed. “We have our hands full with the breach as it is. Well, if I’m his target, I suppose we can expect to hear from Alexius again. What will you do?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Dorian said. “Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there.” He turned to leave before throwing over his shoulder, “Oh, and Felix, try not to get yourself killed?”

Felix replied, “There are worse things than death, Dorian.”

Owain tried not to think about that.


	5. Then and Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkest timeline.

Owain found himself in a dungeon, standing almost knee-deep in cold, murky water. His ears were ringing, and he was out of breath, like he’d been punched in the gut and the air forced from his lungs. He blinked hard, trying to stop his head from spinning. Dorian stood a few feet away, looking just as dazed as he felt. 

He tried to recall how they had gotten here, what had happened just before. He remembered being in the castle hall and confronting Magister Alexius. Cassandra and Sera had been with them- he looked around wildly for them, but he and Dorian were alone. Everything had been going to plan. He had distracted Alexius while Inquisition scouts infiltrated the castle and took out its defenses. Alexius had realized his disadvantage and lashed out like a cornered animal, setting off a spell Owain had never seen before. And then all he could remember was a bright light that abolished all sight and sense. 

He collected himself and waded over to Dorian. “What happened? Where are we?” he asked. Why Dorian should have the answers, he couldn't say, but he couldn't help asking anyway. 

“It looks like we’re still in the castle,” said Dorian, taking in their surroundings. “Alexius must have used the amulet as a focus and transported us to the nearest confluence of arcane energy… Of course! The better question is not where, but _when_ are we. His spell must have sent us through time.” 

“Through time,” Owain repeated. He was barely absorbing Dorian’s words. “What was he trying to accomplish, exactly?”

“I believe he was trying to alter time so that you never existed,” Dorian replied. “Had he succeeded, you would never have been at the Conclave, and you would never have interfered with his Elder One’s plans. But we forced him to cast the spell before he was ready, I countered it, and the magic went wild. And here we are.”

“Did we go forwards or backwards?” Owain asked, still trying to process what had happened. “Either way, we need to go back. I mean, _can_ we go back?”

“There _might_ be a way,” Dorian said, holding a hand to his chin and furrowing his brows in thought. “Though we didn’t travel through time so much as punch a hole through it. I can’t even begin to imagine what we’ve just done to the fabric of the world... But yes. I have some ideas. They will require that we find Alexius and his amulet in this time, however. I suggest we start by leaving this dungeon.” He lifted a foot out of the water, looked at it in disgust, and stepped toward the nearest doorway. 

“What about the others?” Owain asked. “Cassandra. And Sera. Do you think they could have been pulled through with us?”

“Unlikely,” Dorian replied, doubtfully. “I don’t think the spell was wide enough to pull them in, too. Alexius wouldn’t have risked catching himself or Felix in its radius. No. My guess is they are still where and when we left them. In some sense at least.” He paused, seeing Owain’s look of concern. “We won't find out by standing here, yes? Not to worry, Herald. I'm here. I’ll protect you.”

Owain scoffed but followed Dorian out into the passageway. It was just as dark and dank here, but thankfully the floor sloped slightly upwards, and the water level dropped as they advanced. Dorian halted as he reached another doorway and gestured through it to Owain. He could hear two men speaking in Tevinter accents. Dorian looked pointedly at Owain and then through the doorway. Owain responded with a nod. 

They went through to find two guards in Venatori armor. Before they could react, Dorian had trapped them in a cage of lightning, while Owain lit them up with his flames. They fell quickly. Owain patted them down and pocketed the loop of keys he found. 

They moved carefully through the dungeons in similar fashion, taking out two more guards but finding no one else. The maze of dark passages seemed endless. As they entered yet another hallway, Owain heard a woman’s voice and stopped. 

“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light…” It was Cassandra, reciting the Chant of Light. 

When he realized it was her, he called out her name, and his feet seemed to move of their own accord. He burst around the corner and into the room, ignoring Dorian’s warnings to slow down, keep quiet, and wait, lest they alert more guards to their presence. 

He found her kneeling on the stone floor in a small, dark cell, surrounded by spikes of glowing red lyrium that hummed softly at the edges of his awareness. She looked dirty and ragged, her cheeks pale and hollow. Her armor hung loosely on her frame. Owain’s hands shook as he tried key after key until he found one that finally turned the bolt in the rusty door. 

“It’s you,” she said, her eyes wide. “But that’s impossible. You’re dead. We watched Alexius obliterate you.” She stared at him in disbelief. “Or is this truly the end of days, that the dead walk again?”

Owain wrenched open the door and sank to his knees in front of Cassandra. His throat caught and his stomach knotted to see the weariness in her face. He reached out to touch her but stopped himself, drawing back and clenching his fists on his knees instead. “It’s me,” he said, hoarsely, searching her eyes and finding relief that they, at least, burned as bright as ever. “I didn’t die, Cassandra. The spell misfired and sent us through time. Do you know what the date is?”

“The date?” Cassandra thought for a beat before answering. “Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon.”

“9:42?” Dorian said from over Owain’s shoulder. He had almost forgotten Dorian was there. “Then we must have been sent into the future. We’ve missed a whole year!”

Owain turned back to Cassandra. _Maker,_ had it really been so long? “Are you alright? Are you hurt? What’s happened since we left?”

She looked at him for a long moment, sorrow filling her warm hazel eyes. “When you died, I cried out to the Maker. How could he have allowed this? How could he have brought you to us, only to take you away? I was so sure you were sent to help us…” She closed her eyes before continuing. “We lost hope that day.”

His heart broke for her. For a woman of faith like Cassandra, these were heavy words indeed. “And Alexius? The Venatori?” Owain asked, needing to know but afraid to hear the answers.

“Alexius serves the Elder One,” Cassandra replied. “A being of incredible power. Without you, we were unable to close the Breach. Empress Celene was murdered. The Elder One raised an army of demons from the Fade and conquered all of Southern Thedas. The Inquisition, everything we had hoped and planned, it all failed. Nothing could stand in their path.”

Owain sat motionless, numbed by the horror of the picture she painted. All that, in a world without him? Could his death have had such an impact?

“But that doesn’t need to happen,” Dorian broke in, firmly. “We can go back and defeat Alexius. We just need to find him in this time and reverse the spell.”

Cassandra stood and looked at Dorian, her eyes blazing with renewed hope. “Can you truly make it so that none of this ever happens?” She stepped closer to him. “Then you must! The Breach must be closed. The Elder One must be stopped! I will do everything in my power to help you succeed.”

Her determination roused Owain out of his stupor, and he pulled himself to his feet, meeting her gaze again. “We will, Cassandra. I promise.”

She nodded. “I heard the guards say Alexius barricaded himself in the throne room. That's where we need to go.”

They walked on and came to another cluster of cells, where they found Grand Enchanter Fiona. Here, the red lyrium sang with an intensity that seemed to press on Owain’s mind, making it hard to even concentrate. The lyrium itself had spread to fill the entire room, and as they moved closer, he could see that it appeared to merge with Fiona’s body.

“You are alive,” Fiona said, her body twisted in a hunched posture, half standing, half leaning against the cell walls. She struggled to speak, and even to breathe, it seemed.

“Yes,” Owain replied. “Alexius’s magic failed and sent us into the future, to this time. But we think we know a way to go back, to change things.” He came closer and started fitting keys into the lock. “Is the lyrium… growing _in_ you?” 

“If you are near it long enough, you become this," she replied, speaking with painful effort. "And when I die, they will mine my body to grow more. Don't waste your time trying to free me. It is too late to save me.”

Owain had already opened the door and reached for her hand. It burned hot to his touch, and the lyrium song was even more oppressive at this close proximity. She waved him away.

“Go!” she said. “You must go, Enchanter Trevelyan. Stop Alexius. It is the only way.” She mustered strength to add, “Your spymaster, Leliana. She is here. You must find her. You must stop Alexius before the Elder One knows you are here!”

They heeded her and walked on with greater urgency, taking the last corridor they had yet to search. This one led through a larger chamber where they met another set of guards. They went down like the others, succumbing to Owain and Dorian’s combined magic. Cassandra picked up a sword and shield from one of them and armed herself, testing their weight with a slight smile of satisfaction. 

They found Sera in the next room. She was standing in her cell, staring through the bars, humming and muttering to herself as if trying to recall the lyrics to a long-forgotten song. She jumped and backed against the wall at the sight of Owain as he approached. “Ah! It's a ghost! You're him! But you're dead! Ah!”

“I'm not a ghost, Sera,” Owain reassured her as he worked the lock. “And we’re not dead.” She looked even skinnier and dirtier than usual, her hair a tangled nest atop her head.

“But I saw. He killed you!" she retorted. "The day you died, I ran out of arrows making them pay.” The last she said quietly, with such uncharacteristic seriousness that it clutched at his heart.

She startled him by wrapping her arms about his neck as the door swung open. He lowered his arms to pat her reassuringly on the back, though he wasn’t at all certain this would end well. 

They wandered on through the bowels of the castle, searching for the way up to the main hall, Alexius, and their only chance of returning to the past. They came to a study of some kind, full of books and scrolls and alchemical equipment. Dorian walked to the desk in the corner and sifted through the scattered papers, picking up pages and examining them one by one. 

“This is in Alexius’s hand,” he said, gesturing at the notes and running his eyes over them. “It seems our confrontation in the hall was something of a failure for him. The appearance of the Breach was a breaking point for this time magic... He’s been trying since then to go back to a time before the Conclave, but with no success. And to a time before… Ah. Yes.” He looked up at Owain. “Do you know about Alexius? And about Felix’s illness?”

“Should I?” Owain asked. 

“Hmn, I suppose not,” Dorian replied. “The short version is, Felix has the Taint. Alexius’s wife and Felix were traveling without him, and their caravan was attacked by darkspawn. His wife was killed, and Felix was infected with the blight. Alexius never forgave himself for not being there to protect them, and he was never the same after that. You’ve seen how he obsesses over Felix’s health.” 

“So that’s what this is all about for him,” Owain mused. “Felix. The Elder One promised to heal him in return for changing the past. All of that destruction and death, to save one life...” He was remembering their conversation in the throne room, just before Alexius cast his spell. 

“Yes, though it looks like he was doing a bit of experimentation on his own, too,” Dorian said, rifling through a new stack of parchment with a deep crease in his brow. “Using human subjects. Purposefully infecting them and testing their reaction to the blight. Hoping to find a cure.” He stepped back and dropped the papers back on the desk.

“This sounds like blood magic,” said Cassandra, voice thick with contempt.

“Well, you know how we Tevinters love our blood magic,” Dorian quipped, and then he sighed. “I do wish my countrymen would be a touch less cliche sometimes.”

They were interrupted by a chilling scream, coming from somewhere close. They followed the sound to the next chamber, another darkened room, this one filled with the sour smell of blood and death. They crept past a corpse on a torture rack, its flesh flayed and bloodied beyond recognition. 

Owain spotted Leliana at the end of the room, suspended by her wrists from chains that hung from the ceiling. A Venatori interrogator had his back to them and was questioning her, waving a dagger menacingly in her face, a face that shook Owain with how changed it was. Her skin was pocked and pitted, traced with white scars and stretched unnaturally over the bones of her skull. Her eyes looked sunken and dark in their sockets, and they burned with hate. Upon seeing them, she kicked her captor in the head and wrapped her legs around his neck, squeezing until it snapped with an audible crack and he fell lifeless to the floor. Owain moved quickly to free her from her bindings. 

“You’re alive,” she said, not as a question, but as a statement. “Good. Do you have weapons?”

Owain nodded. Leliana walked past him and proceeded to pick the lock on a chest in the corner, pulling from it a bow and quiver of arrows. 

“You’re not going to ask how we got here? Or what happened?” Owain asked, disturbed by the icy efficiency of her manner. “Alexius sent us through time, a year into the future. We need to go back to ensure that this time never comes…”

“I didn’t ask because it doesn’t matter,” Leliana interrupted with cold fury in her voice. She adjusted the bow on her back. 

“But it changes everything!” Dorian said. “We need to find Alexius and reverse the spell. We can defeat him and make sure none of this ever happens!”

“You mages!” She wheeled on him, and her gaze was like another weapon. “You speak of traveling through time like it’s a game. Don't you see? No one should have this kind of power! _This_ is why the world fears magic! This is all pretend to you, a future that will never come to pass. But for me, this was _real_. I _suffered_. We _all_ suffered.” 

The intensity of the hurt and anger in her eyes was too much to bear, and he could think of nothing to say. Owain looked away and worried that she was right. 

\--

They made their way to the castle hall, pushing aside the broken furniture and debris that blocked the doors. Alexius stood waiting for them at the head of the room, staring into the fire that burned in the oversized fireplace. Felix crouched at his father’s side, looking frail and skeletal, far worse than he had when Owain saw him last. 

“I knew I would see you again,” Alexius said without taking his eyes from the flames. “Not that it would be now, but I knew I hadn’t killed you. One final failure.” He turned and faced them. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters. The Elder One comes for us all.” 

Leliana appeared behind Felix and held a dagger to his throat. 

“No!” Alexius shouted. “Please! I’ll do anything!”

“The amulet, Alexius,” Owain said. “Give it to us, and we’ll let him go.” Though he wasn’t even sure if this Leliana would comply.

“I’ll give you anything,” Alexius pleaded, reaching his hands toward his son. “Anything you want!”

“I want the world back,” Leliana said, dangerously, still gripping Felix. Then she drew her blade across his throat. 

Alexius howled in fury, releasing a wave of energy that sent Leliana sprawling across the room. The others drew their weapons and advanced on him. Cassandra occupied his attention from the front while Sera and Leliana flanked him with arrows and Owain and Dorian cast their own spells in return. Outnumbered as he was, Alexius still put up a difficult fight. He was a powerful Magister, with nothing left to lose. But he, too, was no match for their combined might. 

Dorian walked up to the body of his former mentor and crouched beside him. He sighed and shook his head. “Poor Alexius. All of this to save his son. He lost Felix a long time ago, and he didn’t even know it. He was a good man once, like a father to me. I still can’t believe it came to this.”

Owain felt sorry for Dorian, but he had a hard time finding any sympathy for a man who had visited so much horror on the world, even if he was ultimately motivated by love. Love could be selfish, too, he thought. He removed the amulet from the dead man’s neck and held it out to Dorian. “How much time do you need?”

Dorian looked up at him and took the amulet. He frowned. “Give me about an hour to work out what spell he used, and we should be on our way…”

A low rumble shook the castle like an earthquake, loosing bits of masonry from the ceiling. 

“It’s the Elder One,” said Leliana looking at Owain and Dorian. “He is coming. Do it now. You don't have an hour. You have as much time as I have arrows.”

“We will go outside and do what we can,” Cassandra said. “When the doors open, you will know we have fallen.” Sera nodded, subdued and agreeing with Cassandra, for once. 

“No!” Owain protested, looking at Cassandra. “I won’t let you commit suicide like this!” 

She returned his gaze, steady and sad and resolute, and she shook her head. “I won’t fail you again, Herald. I won’t watch them take you again.”

“Look at us!” said Leliana, savagely, throwing her arm out wide. “We are already dead! The only way we live is if you go back and make sure none of this happens!”

Owain opened his mouth to argue, but Dorian dragged him to the front of the room and started working the spell. With a final glance, Cassandra and Sera left to face the horde outside. The doors closed behind them with a thud. Leliana nocked an arrow and readied herself in front of the entrance. 

Owain could hear the blood pumping in his ears, and feel panic quickening his pulse. Was this really happening? Were his friends truly about to sacrifice their lives for him, even in this alternate time? 

He could hear the shrieks of demons and the clash of metal from outside, growing louder and closer as the minutes ticked past. There was a loud boom against the doors before they burst open. Cassandra’s limp body fell through the doorway and slid across the flagstones, her sword clattering to the floor. Two arrows protruded from her neck and her face was bloodied and slack. Demons poured in through the opening and fell upon her, tearing at her with their claws even though she had already ceased moving. 

The next few moments passed in slow motion. He stopped hearing, stopped seeing anything else. Owain screamed with rage and could feel anger and mana surging in him. He conjured flames and cast fireballs in rapid succession at the incoming demons. He was vaguely aware of Leliana trying to beat them back, and of Dorian still intoning the time spell beside him. He moved to rush forward but Dorian clutched the back of his robes, holding him in place and jolting him back to himself. “If you move, we _all_ die!” he shouted in Owain’s ear. 

Owain obeyed, reluctantly, collapsing to his knees and watching the rest of the scene unfold with his heart full of anguish and helplessness. Tears ran down his face, and he couldn’t remember when they started. He watched monsters flow in over Cassandra’s lifeless form. He watched Leliana fall, overwhelmed by the wave of demons and Venatori soldiers, watched them rush toward him at the front of the room, until the world blurred again into a swirl of light and motion, until he and Dorian were again pulled into that space between times and deposited right back where--and when--they had started. Standing before Alexius, with Cassandra and Sera and Fiona and Leliana. All alive, all whole, as if none of this ever happened. 

But for him, it was real.


	6. In Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven, redux.

Owain sat in his cabin, alone in the semi-darkness, the candles on his table having burned themselves out and the fire reduced to ash and coals on the hearth. It was late evening, probably, and he was on his third (fourth?) glass of rye.

It had been three days since they returned from Redcliffe with the free mages as their new allies, and he had barely slept in that time. Closing his eyes, his mind would drift to the horrors he had seen in the future, that dark, alternate timeline that they had averted but lived on in his memory. Cassandra torn apart, Leliana’s last stand, Sera quiet and serious. He couldn’t shake the images. 

So he drank and searched his own heart. Why did this affect him so deeply? Did he really believe in these people and this cause? When did he start to care?

There was a time, when he was young, that he dreamed of changing the world. He would take his place in his father’s legacy, or maybe join the Templars. He would be a knight in shining armor, he would slay dragons and save damsels in distress, he would be a hero, and people would love him for it. Things seemed so simple then. And then the magic came, and his world fell apart. It turned out he was everything he had been taught to fear and hate and scorn. He buried all his hope and idealism with the remains of his old self. He learned to survive and keep his head down, to shrink his life and his dreams to fit within the walls of a Circle tower. For a long time, he convinced himself that was enough. Even when Althea tried to get him involved in the mage rebellion, to care about freedom and their own rights, he had stayed out of it. 

Until the Conclave changed everything again. And Cassandra and the Inquisition showed him that he mattered. What he did mattered, and a world without him went to hell. So he had dared to dream again. Maybe he really _could_ make a difference. Maybe this thing that had happened to him wasn't so bad after all. Except... it was, when it hurt the people he'd started to care about. When the price of those dreams came due. 

He opened his left hand and stared at the mark, watching it shimmer with green, otherworldly light. Then he wrapped his fingers into a fist and let it drop to the wooden table. 

A sharp knock on his door broke through the silence, and he flinched at the sound. He didn't respond or move, just swallowed another mouthful of whiskey. 

The door opened, and Dorian’s face appeared in the gap. He let himself in and sat down in the other chair, setting a ceramic jug on the table. 

“Maker’s breath, Herald,” he said, taking in the disheveled state of both the room and Owain himself. 

Owain shook his head. “Don't call me that,” he said. 

“Fine,” Dorian replied. “Maker’s breath, _Owain_. You look like shit.” He picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey and sniffed it, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips with approval. “But at least you have good taste.”

Owain smiled darkly and raised his glass for another sip. 

“In all seriousness though, did no one ever teach you not to drink alone?” Dorian asked. 

“Nope,” Owain replied. 

Dorian sighed. “Well, someone had to come check on you. Would you believe I drew the short straw?” He stood and searched the room briefly, turning up some new candles that he set on the table and lit with a flick of his fingers. Owain reached to pour himself another drink, but Dorian grabbed the bottle and corked it, setting it aside. He took the jug he brought and poured it into Owain’s empty cup instead. Owain narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“Water,” Dorian said, simply, pushing the cup in his direction. “You need to hydrate. And _might_ I suggest using some of it to clean up?” 

Dorian looked him over again in the candlelight, and Owain got the sense that his opinion had not improved. Owain looked down at himself. He hadn’t changed in days, his coat hung open, and his shirt was still stained with sweat and blood. He ran the back of his hand across his chin, where his usual stubble had blossomed into the beginnings of an unkempt beard. 

“It's bad, isn't it?” he asked. 

Dorian wrinkled his nose slightly and nodded. 

Owain sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I just… I can’t forget what happened at Redcliffe. It haunts me.”

Dorian said nothing at first, staring off into the middle distance as if remembering that horror for himself. “That's the rub with this time travel,” he said. “We came back, but now we have to ask ourselves what was real. We had to see things no one else saw and wonder whether we really did change the future. Did we save the day or do irreparable damage...” He trailed into silence. 

“Have you told her?” he added a minute later, looking up at Owain.

“What?” Owain asked, sharply. 

“Cassandra,” Dorian clarified. “Have you told her how you so _obviously_ feel about her?

Owain drained his water and then stared into the empty cup. More things he didn’t like to admit to himself, more feelings he didn’t want to probe. “I'm not sure what that has to do with anything.” 

Dorian shrugged. “Anyone with eyes could see how you broke down when you saw her.”

“Right,” Owain said, fidgeting with his cup and still avoiding Dorian’s gaze. “Well. It's complicated. Not a good time. We’ve got bigger problems to deal with.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Of course, of course. It's always complicated, until it's not.”

“Anyway, it's not just that,” Owain pushed on and voiced the worries he had been wrestling with all evening. “What if we fail and that future happens anyway? What if nothing we do matters, and we all give our lives for nothing? If we do all this and the Elder One still wins?”

Dorian studied him for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was grave. “We all know what’s at stake here, Owain. We know what the cost is, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. Cassandra knows it, I know it.”

He continued. “Do you know why I stayed? It’s not your delightful Southern weather, that's for certain. Or your _interesting_ cuisine. I stayed because I wanted to be part of something, this thing _you’re_ building. To represent the Imperium and show that we're not all moustache-twirling blood mages. And then maybe, when I go home--assuming we succeed and I still _have_ a home--I can change things for the better. But it starts here, with the Inquisition and closing that breach in the sky. I believe in you, Owain. We all do, or we wouldn't be here.”

His words filled Owain with gratitude. They didn’t sweep away his fear or his hopelessness, but at least he felt a little less alone. He was glad that someone else had been in that dark timeline with him, that someone else could bear witness to that horrible possibility. And prove that it wasn’t just the product of his own insanity. 

“Thank you for that, Dorian,” Owain said after a quiet moment. “And thank you for staying.”

The Tevinter simply inclined his head and poured Owain another cup of water, which he drank obediently. Then Dorian stood to go. “I’ll wish you goodnight then, Herald. We’ve got a breach to close tomorrow.” He paused for a second and picked up the bottle of whiskey, raising his brows at Owain questioningly. Owain grinned and waved his hand in permission. Dorian smiled and tucked the bottle into his robes before stepping lightly out the door.

Owain stumbled to his bed and fell immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

\--

He woke feeling like his brain was being hammered in five different places. Sitting up, the room spun and his stomach felt like it was in freefall. He groaned and regretted every life decision that led him to this point. 

Several minutes later, after more self-loathing, he dragged himself out of bed and drank another glass of water, using the remainder of Dorian's jug to shave for the first time since Redcliffe. Feeling better, he rummaged his room for a relatively clean shirt and put it on, shaking out his coat and putting that back on, too. He found a dusty bit of elfroot in one of his pockets and chewed it, hoping to take the edge off the headache pulsing in his temples. A quick comb of his fingers through his hair, and he set out into the cold Haven morning in search of breakfast. 

A hot meal reduced the pounding in his head to a dull ache and settled his stomach to only the occasional light _swoop_. He walked out of the meal tent and headed toward the Chantry for the morning meeting at the war table. 

As he reached the upper parts of Haven, he saw Cassandra arguing with a man in mage robes, and he paused where he stood. Owain was ashamed to admit he'd been avoiding her since their return. Redcliffe had robbed him of his ease around the Seeker. Seeing her filled him with relief that she was alive and well, but he dreaded the images of her death that came unbidden to his mind. Beneath this ran the undercurrent of his feelings for Cassandra herself, feelings he preferred to keep unexamined for now. Part of him suspected he might be in love with her, but the rest of him wasn't ready to know that yet. 

It was too late to turn around now. He saw her notice him from the corner of her eye, so he continued at an easy pace. As he came within earshot, the outlines of their conversation became clear. The man was one of the new mage recruits from Redcliffe, and their accommodations in Haven were clearly not up to his standards. 

“We need better quarters,” he demanded. “Along with more tents, blankets, and warm clothing. We were not advised about Haven’s conditions in advance! And the Inquisition’s Templars must be kept away from our camp at all times! We will not tolerate them in our midst!”

Cassandra listened with patience that was clearly reaching its breaking point. “As I’ve already told you, our supplies are limited and must be shared equally among all of the Inquisition’s forces,” she said through gritted teeth. “This is not the Circle. The Herald welcomed you to Haven as our allies, not our charges. You must learn to fend for yourself.”

“B-but the Herald is a mage himself!” the man protested. “He would never let his fellows suffer like this! How are we supposed to-”

“Deal. With. It.” Cassandra cut him off with a blistering glare and a note of finality. 

Owain reached them at this point, and the mage appealed to him with a look. Owain said nothing and just smiled at him placidly until he stormed off in a huff. 

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “I don’t know who told them _I_ was the one to complain to,” she said.

“Maybe it’s because you’re so approachable and understanding,” Owain smirked. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m sending the next one to you,” she said.

They turned and walked together toward the Chantry. “Will we be ready for the breach today?” Owain asked. 

“I spoke with Fiona this morning,” Cassandra replied. “The mages will be ready, despite their complaints.” She sighed. “They are here as our equals, and they need to learn what that means. This is _your_ doing after all. You’re the one who brought them here.”

Owain was taken aback by the accusation he heard in her tone. “I did the best I could, Cassandra,” he said, defensively. “I had to think on my feet, and an alliance seemed like the best option, for them and for the Inquisition.” 

“Oh,” she said, stopping and turning toward him. “It does sound like I’m blaming you, doesn’t it? That is not my intention. I don’t disapprove. In fact, I think you did well. You made a decision when one needed to be made. The goal at Redcliffe was to secure the help of the mages, and you did that. I wish I could say I had done this.” 

“ _Now_ who’s the one giving compliments?” he teased, smiling as he held the door for her. 

Cassandra rolled her eyes before walking past him through the open doorway, and he followed her into the war room. 

\--

After all their preparation, closing the breach felt almost like an afterthought. They gathered again at what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and Owain’s mark had glowed brighter and brighter the closer he got to the breach. He could feel its power surging as Solas, Vivienne, Dorian, and the free mages focused their magic on him, and he channeled all of it into the tear in the sky. There was a crack and a flash of light, and a wave of energy that knocked them all to the ground, but at the end of it, they succeeded. The breach was closed, and the sky was whole once more. 

All of Haven rejoiced that evening, opening casks of ale and laughing and dancing around the campfires. Owain joined in, accepting the praise and admiration that was heaped his way, but he tired of it after a while and crept away in search of solitude. 

His feet carried him back to that lonely dock just past the gates, and he sat on it again, marveling at everything that had happened in the weeks since he was last there. 

He had committed to staying with the Inquisition until the breach was closed, and now that it was, his job seemed to be done. He looked down at his hand again, and the mark winked back at him. What would they do now? What would _he_ do now? 

His options seemed even more limited than before. The Herald of Andraste was a known entity now. He couldn’t exactly walk away. Where would he even go? Althea and the rest of the Ostwick Circle were headed here to join the Inquisition, like the other rebel mages. If anything, his place would have been with them. So where was his place now?

He heard footsteps on the dock behind him, and he knew without turning that it was Cassandra. She sat down beside him. “Well done, Herald. They’re telling stories about your heroism today.”

“Which are greatly exaggerated,” Owain said with a slight smile, turning to look at her. “Do they know I’m here almost entirely by accident? And that _you_ probably deserve more credit for all this than I do? Not to mention Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen.”

“True,” Cassandra replied. “We all played a part. This was a victory of alliances, the first in recent memory. So many different people working together- this hasn’t happened since the last Blight.” They sat in silence for a moment. Owain leaned back on his hands and looked up at the sky, taking in the brilliance of the moon and stars and letting stray snowflakes brush against his face. 

“So what’s next?” he asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“The Inquisition will find a new focus,” she said, staring off across the lake. “Many mysteries remain. We must look into the things you saw at Redcliffe: the Elder One, the murder of Empress Celene, the demon army. We still have no idea who opened the breach in the first place, or why.”

“Or what this mark is or why,” Owain added, holding his hand open in front of him. 

“Yes,” she nodded. “Tomorrow we will begin to answer those questions.”

“And tonight?”

“Tonight, we celebrate a victory.” 

Her eyes glowed warmly as she looked at him, and he said nothing but returned her soft gaze, a half-smile on his lips. All thought of leaving the Inquisition fled from his mind then. In that moment, he would be the Herald of Andraste, he would face the Elder One, he would do _anything_ if it kept him at her side.

“Do you remember the last time we sat here?” Owain said. “You asked me whether you had done the right thing. I didn’t have an answer for you then, but I do now. You were right, Cassandra. You were bold and did what no one else would, and you were right. If I believe in anything, I believe in you.”

Her eyes went wide at his words, and then she smiled, slowly. “I was right about you, too.”

“Right about me, how?” he asked, not sure what kind of answer to expect.

“You are the leader we needed, and you have done the Maker’s work, whether you believe it or not,” she said with certainty. “And you’re a hopeless flatterer.”

He laughed in surprise. _Maybe,_ he thought. Maybe in a world without the breach he could be honest with himself. He thought about that as he memorized the way her smile lit her face, how the severe lines softened when she let her guard down. He wanted to trace them with his fingers and feel them under his lips. He wanted her to look at him like that always. He wanted… a lot of things.

The sound of alarm bells shattered the night. Owain and Cassandra turned their heads toward camp, where there was a flurry of activity, and with a worried glance at each other they stood and sprinted toward the gates. There, they met Leliana and Josephine, with Cullen running close behind, breathless from rousing his men to arms. 

“What is it?” Cassandra asked with urgency in her voice.

“Enemy forces,” Cullen responded. “Scouts spotted them coming through the pass. No banners.”

“How many?” Cassandra asked.

“Too many,” Leliana answered. “More than we can hope to defeat in open battle.” 

As they stood there coming to terms with this news, there was a banging on the gate. A voice seeped through the crack. “Let me in! I need to come in! I have a warning!” Owain looked at the others, who stood motionless, confusion on their faces. He turned and pulled the door open, and a pale, waifish boy in a large, floppy hat slipped through. He addressed Owain. “Are you the Herald of Andraste?” he asked, in an odd, wispy voice. 

“Yes,” Owain replied. “And who are you? What are you doing here?”

“You can call me Cole,” he said. “I’ve come to warn you. It’s the Templars. They’re coming to hurt you.”

“Templars?” Cullen asked incredulously. “Is this their response to our alliance with the mages? To attack blindly?”

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” Cole said. “Do you know him? He knows you. He’s coming for you. He’s very angry. He’s angry that you took his mages.”

Cole pointed to a rise above the valley, where they could see a mass of shadows and torches, light glinting off of armor, all of it suffused with a reddish glow. Owain recalled with dread the red lyrium song from that nightmare future.

“Give me a plan, Cullen,” he said, turning to his commander. 

“Haven is no fortress,” Cullen said. “The Chantry is the only building with any hope of withstanding an attack, and even then it probably won’t hold for long. If we want to have any chance of holding them off, we need to control the field. There are trebuchets along the outer defenses, but they’ll be overrun before long. We need to hold them and keep the enemies clear for my men to fire.”

“Done,” Owain said, and Cassandra nodded in agreement. “Cassandra, Dorian, Blackwall, with me,” he said, giving instructions decisively as the rest of his companions gathered. “Solas, Vivienne, Varric, Sera, I want you along the walls. Hit them from a distance and keep them out as long as you can. Bull, take your Chargers and hold this gate. The rest of you get the villagers to the Chantry.”

Everyone nodded to his orders and scattered to their places. Owain hurried after Cassandra down the path and could hear Cullen rallying the troops behind him. “To arms, Inquisition! For the Herald! For your lives!”

They reached the first trebuchet and readied themselves to defend it as a crew of Inquisition soldiers wound and loaded the mechanism. Blackwall and Cassandra took the front, while Dorian and Owain stood a few paces back on higher ground. The first Templars rounded the corner, and their twisted forms gave Owain pause. They wore Templar plate, but crystals of red lyrium grew over and through their armor, as if fused with their bodies. They came in various stages of advanced growth. Some looked almost normal, while others looked barely human. His mind flashed back to Fiona in her cell. 

Not only did the Red Templars look different, but they were stronger and faster than normal, too. The red lyrium seemed to give them unnatural abilities. They shrugged off his usual fire attacks and pushed Owain and his companions back toward the trebuchet. If fire didn’t work, he would try the opposite, he thought. He signaled to Cassandra and Blackwall, who held the enemies’ attention as he circled behind them and set ice mines. Dorian corralled them with lightning, pushing them toward the traps. Once the Templars were frozen, the warriors rushed in with shield bashes and lunging strikes, shattering the lyrium in the Templar armor and weakening them to further attack. More traps, more lightning, and the Templars fell. 

They made their way to the second and then the third siege engine, clearing each wave of Templars as they came. Just as the Inquisition soldiers were loading the last machine, a new group of Templars appeared, different than the rest. These were further along with their red lyrium transformation. Two had long, gangly limbs, which they used to launch glowing red projectiles at the men loading the trebuchet, piercing them through the chest. The third Templar towered above the others. Its head and torso were solid lyrium, completely unrecognizable as human. 

Owain and Dorian dealt with the ranged enemies while the warriors handled the behemoth. Dorian cast a barrier over the party and a cage of lightning over the templars. The templars launched more spikes of lyrium at the Tevinter, but Owain blocked them with a well-timed wall of ice. He fade-stepped toward them and planted his mines at close range, freezing them where they stood. A powerful bolt from Dorian shattered them, while a final fire spell from Owain blasted apart the remains. 

The mages turned their attention to the largest Templar, who was keeping Blackwall and Cassandra well occupied. It swung its massive fists while they dodged and weaved around its feet. Owain rushed forward to help, setting another mine before stepping deftly out of the way. Blackwall banged on his shield, taunting it, and it rushed forward into the trap. It was so large that the spell froze only its legs, but the Warden charged in anyway, bashing at them with his shield and slashing with his sword. The creature howled in pain and fell to its knees. Taking advantage of the opening, Cassandra leapt onto its back and buried her sword in the base of its skull. It shrieked again and tried to shake her off, but she held on, driving the blade deeper until its cries went silent and its writhing ceased. 

Owain stared in admiration as she pulled her sword out and jumped down, triumphant and breathless with exertion. _Maker, she was amazing._

They finished the job and loaded the last trebuchet. The machines hit their mark, setting off a cascade of snow and ice that blocked the path of the oncoming forces. 

The Inquisition troops cheered, but their joy was short-lived. A loud, chilling screech rent the air. Owain heard the beat of wings and rush of wind as a dragon flew low over the walls of Haven. The creature opened its mouth and breathed fire over its path, demolishing one of the trebuchets and sending soldiers scattering for cover. _Shit._ Templars were one thing, but a dragon was another. “Fall back! Fall back to the Chantry!” he called, running for the gates as the dragon strafed again. 

They retreated up through the village, beating back Templars at each step. Owain ran past the burning tavern but halted when he heard a voice calling for help. He looked at Cassandra, who raised her shield to hold off the enemies blocking their path, while Blackwall smashed open the door. Owain ran inside, getting a facefull of smoke and heat that stung his eyes. He covered his nose with his sleeve and squinted, looking for the source of the cries. He saw the elf bartender crouched in the corner, surrounded by burning beams. The roof wouldn't last long at this rate. He fade-stepped to her side and threw down an ice spell, quenching the flames and buying them a brief respite from the heat. He wrapped his arms around her and led her out of the burning building. 

They came out the door and stopped in their tracks as a wagon outside the herbalist hut exploded into flames. Owain ducked and threw them both aside to avoid the blast. His heart pumped with adrenaline as the dragon flew overhead again. He could see the bodies of the Inquisition’s herbalist and tranquil researcher broken and blasted near the burning wagon. He felt small and helpless in the middle of it all. Innocent people were suffering and dying, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

They kept moving until they reached the Chantry, where Cullen pushed the heavy doors closed behind them. Owain leaned against the door and took a moment to breathe. “They have… a fucking dragon,” Owain gasped, between gulps of air. 

Cullen’s face was deadly serious. “I know. It’s cutting a path for that army. We’ve already taken heavy losses. There’s no way we can withstand a siege from that thing, even in here. I’m running out of ideas.” 

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole said from Owain’s peripheral vision. “He only wants the Herald.” 

Owain swiveled to look at the boy. “If it will save these people, he can have me,” he declared.

“Herald,” Cullen said. “There are no tactics to win here. The only thing that will slow that army is another avalanche. We could turn the trebuchets and cause one last slide.”

“But we’re overrun,” Owain pointed out, confused. Was Cullen suggesting suicide? “If we hit the enemy, we’ll bury Haven, too.”

“We’re going to die, but we can decide how,” Cullen replied in a voice heavy with resignation. “Many don’t get that choice.”

“There’s another way,” Cole broke in. Owain turned and noticed that he was holding Chancellor Roderick, an old Chantry cleric who'd spent the last several weeks accusing Owain of murdering the Divine. Roderick was gravely injured. He slumped weakly against the boy, and blood had soaked the front of his robes crimson. “He says there is a path, a way out of the valley. Andraste showed it to him, in a pilgrimage, a way to save the people.”

Owain turned to Cullen. “Will it work?”

“Possibly, if Chancellor Roderick can show us the way,” Cullen said. “If it’s the only option we have...” He looked at Owain and straightened his shoulders. “You'll need to reset the trebuchets. Keep the attention of the Elder One and his dragon, and wait until we’re above the tree line before firing. It just might buy us enough time to get out of here.”

Owain nodded. If there was a chance for survival, they had to take it, even if he paid the cost. Enough people had died because of him today. He turned to the door again. 

“Trevelyan,” Cullen added, with a final look. “Good luck. Let that thing hear you.”

Owain nodded again and opened the door, heading back into the cold with Cassandra, Blackwall, and Dorian. They fought their way back through the village, stepping over the splintered remains of the main gate and hurrying to the remaining siege machines. As they repositioned the first one, he called out what he'd decided on the way down. “I’m the one they want,” he said. “If things get bad, I want you to give me your word that you’ll fall back. Take that escape route with Cullen and the others. Get out.” 

His companions were quiet as he looked at them one by one. Dorian nodded, his expression reluctant but knowing. Blackwall bowed his head. Cassandra stared back at him, her hazel eyes burning with defiance. 

“Please, Cassandra,” he begged her. The images from Redcliffe flashed in his memory. “I _need_ you to promise me this.”

She nodded once, finally, to his infinite relief, never taking her eyes from his. 

They continued around the outskirts of Haven, turning the trebuchets and readying them for launch. As they loaded the final one, the dragon swooped low over them, breathing a trail of fire and landing heavily in front of Owain. He shouted at the others to retreat, and without looking back, he turned to face it. He dodged its flames and went on the attack, but his magic was no match. It swatted him with a heavy paw, breaking his staff and tumbling him to the ground. 

As Owain struggled to his feet, he could see that they weren’t alone. A tall, horrifying creature walked out of the flames, its body a grotesque amalgam of bone, metal, and raw muscle. It held a spinning orb in one of its skeletal hands and addressed him in a low, booming voice. “Pretender,” it said. “You toy with forces beyond your ken, but no more. Know me. Exalt the Elder One. Know the will that is Corypheus. You will kneel.”

Owain stood his ground as the creature approached. He could feel his mark reacting and sputtering with power, glowing bright amid the smoke. “Never!” he shouted. Whatever happened here, he needed to buy time, as much as possible for the others to escape.

“I am here for the anchor, and I will have it.” Corypheus held up the orb and reached his other hand toward Owain. The mark surged and crackled with light. He held his left hand with his right as it pulsed with pain, drawn toward the Elder One and his spell. 

“This is your fault, you know,” the creature continued. “You interrupted a ritual years in the making, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose. How you survived I do not know, but what you have been marked with, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens!”

He moved toward Owain and picked him up by the wrist, lifting his feet off the ground and bringing them eye to eye. Owain struggled in vain. “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods in person,” Corypheus said. “I found only chaos and corruption. Now I have gathered the will to return under my own name. To champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.” 

He released Owain then, slamming him against the wooden siege engine. 

“The anchor is permanent,” the Elder One raged. Whatever he was attempting, it had been unsuccessful. The mark still flashed on Owain's hand. “So be it! I will find another way to give this world the nation and god it requires. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die!”

Owain looked at Corypheus and down at the trebuchet. If he was quick, he could set it off before Corypheus knew what was happening. He brought his attention back to the creature. “Enough talk. If I’m going to die, I will not go alone!” He dove for the lever to fire the machine, sending its load flying high over the village to the mountain above. He could hear the rumble of falling snow that told him it had worked, but he didn’t stop to confirm. 

He sprinted away from Corypheus and the dragon, running blindly. He spotted a hole in the ground, half covered with wooden planks, and threw himself at it headfirst, crashing through layers of rotted wood, ice, and snow before flopping to a rest at the bottom, where his world went dark.

\--

The popping of the mark roused him, and he woke with a gasp, clawing snow and ice from his face and struggling free of the heap he had landed in. His chest and shoulder hurt, but whether that was from the fall or the dragon or Corypheus, he didn’t know. He conjured a flame for light and assessed his surroundings. He was in some kind of underground tunnel or cave beneath Haven. The walls were man-made in some places, natural stone in others. He followed the wall until he found a passageway that seemed to slope upwards, and he took it. He was wet and cold. Melted snow had soaked through his breeches and up his sleeves. He wrapped his coat tighter and shivered, holding the flame closer for its meager warmth. 

The passage led him to the mouth of the cave, and he looked out onto blank whiteness, as far as he could see. As if the avalanche wasn’t enough, the weather had picked up since the battle. The wind was driving snow nearly sideways. He considered his options. He could stay here and freeze slowly, or go out there and freeze more quickly, with the _chance_ of catching up to the rest of the Inquisition. If he stayed, he would certainly be left behind. 

Owain thought of Cassandra and the others and reached for that slim chance, stepping out into the blizzard. He picked a direction and walked.


	7. Each Night in Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost in the Frostbacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW-ish, I guess.

Owain lost track of how many times he had drifted in and out of consciousness. Waking, sleeping, reality, the Fade. Their edges blurred and mixed around him, like a bath of oil and water. 

He woke at one point early on, in a haze of pain and heat. He lay in a tent, heaped with furs. Coals burned in a brazier beside him. He could just make out the dim forms of his advisors at the entrance. Solas was propping his head up with one hand and pouring a bitter solution down his throat with the other. “You very nearly froze to death,” he said as he administered the potion. “This will warm you and help you sleep.” Owain was too exhausted to protest or even speak. He could see Cassandra hovering over Solas’s shoulder. It was her face he held in his mind as he slipped below the surface once more. 

\--

He was alone, in the Fade, wandering a landscape that was at once both alien and familiar. It looked like ancient ruins at first, the kind they saw in the Hinterlands and elsewhere in Thedas. Crumbling stone walls and arches taken over by creeping vines and weeds. Then he turned a corner and found himself in the middle of a formal garden like the ones he saw in Val Royeaux, a maze of neatly trimmed hedges, elegant statues, and bubbling fountains. He stepped through a gate, and it became his childhood home, the Trevelyan manor in Ostwick. He remembered these places, the stables, the kitchen gardens, the imposing front doors.

He walked into the courtyard, and a small rift appeared, hissing and spitting in the air. It spawned a half-dozen demons that ran screeching toward him. He grabbed his staff and fade-stepped out of the way, raising a wall of flames in his path. Whirling to put the flames at his back, he threw down a trio of fire mines and set to immolating any demons that made it past his defenses. This was almost routine now, and he finished them quickly. Then he held up his hand to close the rift, as he had done so many times before.

And nothing happened. 

He looked at his left hand, flexed his fingers, and turned it over. It looked… normal. There was no mark, no green glow. Which meant no way to close this rift. He felt a pang of disappointment, mixed with relief and displaced by rising panic as the rift crackled again. A massive pride demon fell from the breach and landed with a loud, earth-shaking thud. It stood and stretched toward the sky, laughing its deep, thunderous laugh as it looked down at him. “Pretender,” it said.

Owain reached again for his staff, but it was- _gone?_ His hands were empty. It was not on his back. He could still cast, of course, but defeating this monster would take more than he could do without a weapon. _Shit._

He was defenseless. Powerless. Weak. 

The demon laughed again and reached out to him. With no other option, Owain spun on his heels and ran. He ran through the courtyard and back into the manor, which had changed into an endless, twisting labyrinth of passages. 

He could hear the demon gaining on him. He pushed himself, heart hammering, lungs heaving, legs pumping at full tilt. Turning corners, up and down stairs. No matter how hard he ran, it wasn't fast enough. He was too slow and too heavy, as if his boots were made of lead. 

He came to a long, wide room filled with people, many of them in Inquisition uniforms. They looked ragged, injured, and dying. They called out to him, pressing forward, clutching at his coat, begging for his attention and help. He could do nothing, say nothing. There was a monster coming, couldn’t they see? He pushed his way through the crowd. He turned a corner and kept running until he came to a dead end and turned around, finally spent, doubled over and panting for air. 

The demon reached the opposite end of the hall and stopped. Now it looked like his father, and it smiled, leering at him with his father’s hard eyes and laughing at him with his father’s cold voice. 

“Pathetic,” the demon spat as it advanced slowly up the hall. “Look at you. Cornered like the rat you are. No son of mine would turn and run. Hah! Did you think you would learn anything in that Tower? Magic _ruined_ you. Magic made you _weak_.”

“Did you think you could do this?” it continued. “Did you think you mattered? You’re nothing. All you do is fail, like you failed those people in Haven. Like you failed your friends at Redcliffe.” A horde of demons and walking dead flowed in behind it, crawling and stumbling down the hallway towards him. Among them he saw Cassandra with arrows in her neck, Leliana scarred and skeletal, bleeding from her chest. 

Owain backed against the wall and looked around frantically. Fear gripped his heart and cold sweat ran down his brow. He found a door to his right. Had that always been there? He didn't care. He lunged for the handle and stumbled through it, pushing the door closed behind him. 

He found himself in a bedroom, surrounded by sudden quiet and the soft glow of candlelight. His pulse slowed as the panic drained from him, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. His eyes were drawn to the bed in the center of the room. On it lay his mother, ill, as she often was while he was growing up. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped over the covers. Her lips were moving and he could just make out the murmur of her prayers. 

He approached her, slowly, and somehow he was a boy again, small, the mattress coming only to the middle of his chest. He leaned close and rested his head on her shoulder. She put her hand on his head, and peace flowed over him. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

\--

He opened his eyes onto tent canvas and the glow of dying coals. His eyelids felt heavy, and he blinked slowly to bring it all into focus. 

The tent was empty now, except for Cassandra, who knelt at his side, her head bowed and eyes closed. The fading light cast shadows on her face, which was calm except for a slight crease between her brows. 

She hadn’t noticed him waking, and he decided to keep it that way, so he stilled himself and studied her quietly. Her hair was messy and her armor still speckled with blood and dirt from the battle at Haven. Her sword and shield were elsewhere, and she had taken off her gloves to rest her bare hands on her knees. Her eyes shifted behind their lids, and her lips moved with whispered prayers. The light caught the tracks of tears down her cheeks, and he flattered himself to think that maybe a few had been for him. 

It made his heart ache. This strong, passionate, beautiful woman. He wanted her. And he wanted to fold her in his arms, to tell her it would be alright, to shield her from the hurt and the danger of this world. But she would never allow that. And in this moment, with the pain in his limbs, he wasn’t even sure he could pull it off. The truth was, she was the one protecting him. 

The comfort in that thought carried him off again into the abyss. 

\--

He was ascending a narrow, circular stairway. Stripes of sun fell through slits in the stone walls, lighting the particles of dust that danced in the air as he passed. He reached a landing and exited onto a hallway lined with doors. The pattern in the walls, the floors- it was all familiar, and yet not. This was the Circle, he felt, rather than thought. 

It was quiet and strangely empty. He was searching for something, something he desperately needed, but what that was, he couldn’t say. He wandered in and out of rooms. Here was the library, with its towering shelves and desks stacked with books. Here was the great hall, with its long tables and benches set for a meal. Here were the dormitories, the only spaces a mage might call their own, hidden behind rows of doors lined up like prison cells. 

He met no one in all his wanderings until he reached the small chapel on the first floor. There, he found Cassandra kneeling before the altar and the gilded statues of Andraste. He walked slowly toward her, passing through the rows of pews and patches of multi-colored light that filtered through the stained glass windows. At the sound of his steps, she turned and looked over her shoulder at him. A slow smile spread across her face as she watched his approach, and she rose to meet him. 

She said nothing, and indeed, he could think of nothing that needed saying either. He looked at her for a long moment and then reached out a hand to gently, lightly, brush her cheek with his fingers. She smiled again and closed her eyes, and then, before he could stop himself, he stepped even closer, too bold by far, and placed his lips on hers. 

She gasped in surprise, and he pulled away slightly, his heavy-lidded eyes searching hers for rebuke or anger, but finding only warmth in that bottomless hazel. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down for another kiss. A proper one, deeper and longer. Her tongue licked at his lips, seeking access he was more than happy to grant. He pulled her closer, tighter, bringing their bodies flush, surrounding her in an embrace that felt _right._

He pulled his mouth from hers, and her face flickered with disappointment that he dispelled by pressing a row of slow, unhurried kisses along the sharp line of her jaw to her ear and down to her collarbone. His stubble rasped against the smooth skin of her throat. Eyes closed, she arched her body toward his, and he responded with a groan that came from his very core. He held her hips and pinned her back against the edge of a heavy table. She kissed him again, as hungry for this as he was, meeting her lips to his, sliding her tongue across his. Her hands gripped his shoulders, his neck, his cheek, the hair on the back of his head. 

His hands found the hem of her tunic--she wasn’t wearing armor, somehow--and slid upwards to her waist, finding bare, warm skin that only made him want more. He ground his hips into hers, not caring if she could feel his desire. No, _wanting_ her to feel it. As if she read his mind, she brought a hand down to brush the tightness in his breeches, and he groaned again. 

He was burning with need now. He growled low and kissed her hard, smashing his lips into hers, scraping his teeth along her writhing, twisting tongue. He grabbed her ass and lifted her onto the edge of the table, never taking his mouth from hers. She wrapped her legs around his hips to pull him closer. His hands moved higher under her tunic and cupped the curves of her breasts. He swiped the rough pads of his thumbs across their peaks, and they hardened at his touch. She whimpered softly into his mouth, and like _that_ , she melted what was left of his self-control. 

He pulled the tunic over her head and pushed her gently but urgently down onto the table. He leaned over her and kissed a line down her throat to the space between her breasts and ground himself against the heat between her thighs. He traced concentric circles around one nipple with his thumb and took the other in his mouth, sucking and teasing with his tongue, losing himself in the intoxicating sound of her pleasure, the feel of her fingers twisting in his hair, the pressure and promise of his cock against her core...

\--

And then--suddenly--it was dark. 

Something wet and cold--very cold--was on his forehead, and something warm at his cheek. He reached up to grab it, and when his eyes focused, he found himself holding Cassandra’s hand. Still heated from his dream, and without thinking, he turned his head and brushed a kiss on her palm before turning back to her with a ridiculous grin. 

She looked at him with surprise, brows quirked in confusion. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it and drew back her hand with a soft cough. “Herald,” she said. “It’s… it’s good to see you awake, finally. It seems your fever has broken.”

The sound of his title slammed him back to earth, and he wiped the smile from his face as he remembered where he was. He looked down and thanked the Maker for the furs that still covered him from the waist down, saving him _that_ embarrassment, at least. 

He pulled the cool cloth from his head and tried to sit up. He was stopped by both a sharp pain and Cassandra’s hand on his chest. “Easy,” she said. “You cracked a few ribs, and they will take time to heal, even with Solas’s potions.”

He winced as he lay back and gingerly prodded his ribs through the bandages that circled his chest. “What happened? How long has it been?” he asked, with genuinely no idea of the answers. The last thing he remembered was wandering through a blizzard, cold and desperate, waiting for his own death. How did he get here? Had it been hours? Days? 

“We found you just outside camp, collapsed in the snow,” Cassandra replied. “We had almost given up searching for you until we saw the light from your mark. You were barely conscious. Cullen and Blackwall had to carry you back here. That was almost two days ago.”

He remembered now. Haven, the battle, the dragon. All that death, all that destruction. “What about the others? And Corypheus?”

“Dorian, Blackwall, and I fell back as you ordered,” she said, her voice weary. “We caught up with the others in the pass, just as the avalanche fell. We feared the worst for you. Many were lost at Haven, and many more are injured. There’s been no sign of Corypheus so far, but we will need to move soon. Our supplies are running low.”

“Where will we go?” Owain asked. 

“To be honest, I do not know,” she sighed. “But now that you are awake, perhaps we can agree on a plan. I should go and alert the council.” She rose to go. 

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand and turning to meet her eyes. He swallowed before speaking. “I… Thank you, Cassandra. For being here. For watching over me.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes vulnerable and sad. “I brought you into this mess, Owain. I started this. When I thought we had lost you… I could never forgive myself. I knew I should have stayed with you.” She paused before continuing. “But you saved us-- without you, none of us would be here. We need you. The Inquisition needs you. It was the least I could do.” She smiled softly, then ducked under the tent flap and was gone. 

Owain rubbed his face and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyeballs. _Fuck._ He was an idiot, and it was only luck that he hadn't made things worse. 

It had been a long time since he had dreamed so vividly, and even then, it was only under the influence of lyrium. He raked his fingers through his hair and made a mental note to ask Solas about his potions. Though in the end, he mused, he could hardly blame someone else for the content of his own subconscious. 

Slowly, and ignoring Cassandra’s warning, he pushed himself to a sitting position and tried to dress himself. It took several minutes and many deep breaths just to drag a shirt over his head and torso. It took several minutes more to shrug into his coat and summon the strength to stand and stagger toward the entrance. 

Just as he reached the flap, Mother Giselle appeared. “Pardon, Herald. Cassandra said you were awake. A word?”

A chat with the cleric was, frankly, the last thing he wanted right now, but he was in a contrite mood. His interactions with Cassandra--both waking _and_ sleeping--were still fresh in his mind. “Of course,” he said and masked his irritation with practiced politeness.

“You should be resting,” Giselle said. She marked his obvious discomfort as he sat down again on his bedroll. 

“I’ve rested enough for the moment,” he lied. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“True, but we are safe for now,” Giselle replied. “We have seen nothing of Corypheus or his forces. Perhaps they cannot find us. We hardly know where we are ourselves, after all. Or perhaps he thinks you dead.”

Owain propped himself up with one arm and clutched his ribs with the other, wincing as he shifted his weight. “He was almost right on that front,” he said, with more lightness than he felt. 

“The people are still struggling to make sense of what you’ve done,” Giselle continued. “We saw our defender stand against evil. We saw you fall, and now we have seen you return. The more the enemy seems beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear, and the more our trials seem ordained.”

“I escaped the avalanche, you know,” Owain insisted. “Through a mine shaft or something. I didn’t die and come back to life. And I did what anyone else would have done. There was nothing miraculous about this.”

“Perhaps not,” Giselle said, shrewdly. “The dead cannot return from across the veil, of course. But the people know what they saw, or, perhaps, what they _needed_ to see. The Maker works both in the moment and in how it is remembered. Can we truly know that he is not with us?”

“I just don’t see how what we _believe_ matters,” Owain replied, remembering all the dead villagers and Inquisition soldiers at Haven and his own inability to save them. “Corypheus is a very real, physical threat, as we saw at Haven. That’s a fact. We cannot match that with hope alone.” His patience for this conversation was wearing thin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, getting up and moving for the entrance. 

He emerged from the tent and realized he had no idea what lay outside. He found himself in the middle of a large, makeshift camp. Inquisition soldiers and refugees were gathered around tents and small campfires around him. Fresh snow crunched underfoot. 

Cassandra and the rest of his advisors were standing around a wooden crate covered in maps and charts- what passed for a war table here, he guessed. They were pointing and arguing. About what, he couldn’t hear, but he assumed it was their next course of action. Some things didn’t change. 

Mother Giselle appeared at his shoulder, having followed him out of the tent. “Another heated voice won’t help, even yours. Perhaps especially yours.”

He said nothing to that and pulled his coat tighter around himself, taking care not to pull at the bandages. He sighed, and it was a visible puff of steam in the cold air. 

“An army needs more than an enemy, Herald. It needs a cause,” she added. 

And then, without warning, she started singing. Softly at first, then growing in volume. People around them stopped to listen, and then they, too, started to sing. He frowned at her. Was this really happening? He had the distinct impression that he was being used. She just smiled at him and sang on. 

He was at a loss. He looked at his advisors, but they were no help. Leliana and Cullen had joined the singing. Josephine just smiled at him, and Cassandra, she looked at him thoughtfully, her expression unreadable. 

The song _was_ uplifting and beautiful in its way. He could see it uniting the camp around their common cause, with him at its head. Perhaps Giselle was right, and this is what they needed. And yet, it left him feeling profoundly empty. He felt like a fraud, undeserving of this devotion. He would rather face another avalanche than carry the weight of all their faith and hope. 

So he stood there, alone, as their voices rose to the cold, clear heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a bit of bait and switch. Couldn't resist. :) But dreams =/= real life...


	8. A Break, A Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some down time in Skyhold.

A cold, crisp wind swept down from the mountains as Owain walked the battlements of Skyhold. He liked the way the pre-dawn light washed the stones with grey. In an hour or so, the sun would rise to drench it all in a blinding brightness. 

They had been here for little over a week, and workers were already putting the place back together. Allies and new recruits were arriving every day, swelling their numbers and their resources. Even in the castle’s current condition, it was nice to be surrounded by solid walls again after their journey through the Frostbacks. Skyhold was enormous- the perfect home for the Inquisition, really. Solas had shown them the way. Something he’d seen in one of his trips through the Fade, perhaps. Owain wished his own dreams would show him such useful things. 

He was back to not sleeping. After a few hours of tossing and turning on his bedroll each night, he would give up and pace the castle walls in the early morning quiet. Solitude was infinitely better than the images that crowded his sleeping mind these days. 

He paused and leaned his elbows along one of the walls, looking down at the empty courtyard. It was still scattered with tents that served as temporary shelter while they cleared more of the castle’s interior. Piles of fresh lumber and salvaged stone were stacked along the perimeter, and the outlines of a training ring were sketched in the dirt. He snapped his fingers idly and watched the tiny flame play across his hand and dance in the breeze. 

The free mages had set themselves up in one of the crumbling towers on the south side of the fortress, camping in the lower courtyard as they restored the structure. The Ostwick mages had arrived two days ago, having re-directed from Haven after its destruction. He was up on the walls when they came through the gate. Althea had caught his eye and beamed at him from below. “ _You_ did this,” her face seemed to say. “ _You_ made this possible.”

She found him when he came down to welcome the members of his former Circle. “You’re a real fucking hero now, Owain,” she’d said in his ear, smirking and wrapping him in a full-body hug. “I knew you had it in you.” It was surreal, to be surrounded by old friends and rivals, teachers and colleagues. The connections of his former life, clashing with the man he was now. And who was he, now?

Yesterday they named him Inquisitor. They handed him a giant sword and gathered the entire Inquisition to witness. He couldn’t say no with all of them--especially Cassandra--looking at him so expectantly. The Inquisition needed a leader, she’d said, and who better than the man who was already leading it? In spite of all his reservations, he hoisted that silly sword aloft. He would do it for the mages, he’d said. To set an example, to show that mages could do good and deserved the freedoms they had tried to claim for themselves. Dorian, Vivienne, and Solas smiled and nodded their approval from the crowd. Fiona, Althea, and the free mages cheered. 

That was the easy part. The real work was still to come. The work of rebuilding Skyhold, of investigating Corypheus and what the hell he wanted with Owain and the mark he had called the anchor. Varric had stepped in to offer assistance on that front. He and his friend Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, had apparently faced Corypheus before. Had thought they’d killed him, in fact. Hawke was on her way to Skyhold to provide what help and advice she could.

Owain heard a door slam behind him, and he turned to look. It was Cullen, coming out of the tower he had claimed as a kind of makeshift office. He hurried forward a few steps, stopped, and then grimaced, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He muttered something under his breath and then walked toward the stairs. He didn’t notice Owain until he was nearly upon him. 

“Morning,” Owain said, lazily. “If this qualifies as morning.”

Cullen looked startled. “I- Inquisitor! My apologies. I didn’t see you there.” He cleared his throat and collected himself. “The walls are usually quiet this time of day.”

“They are, indeed,” Owain agreed, from personal experience. “Are you always up this early? Or is something keeping you awake, too?” He studied his commander. Cullen's eyes were bloodshot. He looked exhausted and haggard, his face unshaven and hair in an unusual state of disarray. Probably not far from how he looked himself, honestly.

“What?” Cullen asked. His brows were furrowed in confusion, and he brought a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Oh, it's nothing. I was just hoping to get some tea. From the kitchens.” Owain looked at him quizzically. “I've been writing,” Cullen added. “Letters.”

“For work or pleasure?” Owain asked, the ghost of a smirk at the edge of his mouth.

“To the families,” Cullen responded, grimly. “Of those we lost at Haven. I want them to know that their sacrifice wasn't in vain, that they gave their lives for a worthy cause.”

Owain chided himself for his lame attempt at levity. Of course it was something serious and work-related. This was Cullen. He looked down and spoke soberly. “I saw the list that Leliana gave you. That was a lot of names.”

“Yes,” Cullen said with a deep breath. “We lost a lot of good men and women that night.” He turned to Owain with a determined fire in his eyes. “And I assure you it will not happen again, Inquisitor. Haven wasn't built to withstand an attack like that, but Skyhold is. We could make a stand here, if needed. We won't let Corypheus win again.”

“I'm glad,” Owain replied, not knowing what else to say. 

Cullen continued, looking away and rubbing his neck again. “I’ve also been meaning to say thank you. We wouldn't be here without you. That final avalanche, the sacrifice you were ready to make… I… haven’t always gotten along with mages, you know, but I’m glad. Glad you…”

“Didn't die?” Owain filled in for him, with a wry smile. “Are those the words you're searching for?”

Cullen breathed out a laugh, looking out over the walls. 

“Well, likewise,” Owain continued. “Who else would I get to train the Inquisition troops? Cassandra? She would punch anyone who stepped out of line, and we'd be out of healing potions within a week.”

“That sounds… exactly like her,” Cullen chuckled, shaking his head. They watched the sun brighten the sky beyond the Frostbacks.

“Would you like help?” Owain asked after a moment. “With the letters?”

Cullen seemed surprised. “I- Well, sure. I'm sure a letter from the Inquisitor himself would provide a fair amount of comfort.”

“Still can't get used to that name,” Owain complained as they walked back to Cullen's tower. “And I just stopped cringing at 'Herald of Andraste.'”

\--

Owain stayed until mid-morning writing letters. He took his time with each one, saying the names out loud, trying to recall faces when he could, and asking Cullen about them when he couldn't. There were far too many he didn't know. He regretted that. These people had given their lives for the Inquisition. They had died in his name, but he didn't even know theirs. 

Too many names. They hardly made a dent in the list, but Cullen insisted they break for the day. He had other duties to attend to. Owain promised to return each morning until they finished.

He made his way down to the courtyard, which was now bustling with activity. Workers carried building materials and supplies back and forth, and the sound of hammering filled the air. He decided he wanted something else to keep him busy, to keep his mind from darker thoughts. He headed for the forge- perhaps his skill with fire could be of use there. 

He opened the door and heard angry, shouting voices from the second floor. Cassandra. And… Varric?

He hurried up the stairs and found them deep in a heated argument. 

“You knew where Hawke was all along!” Cassandra accused.

Varric threw it back at her. “I sure did!”

“You conniving little shit!” she spat. She swung at him, and he ducked around a chair, which Cassandra kicked viciously out of the way. 

Without quite considering the danger, Owain stepped between them, his hands up in a placating stance. Cassandra stepped toward him and then stopped inches from his face, redirecting her fist at a wooden post and grunting in frustration. Owain flinched involuntarily. He could swear he saw dust falling from the floor above, shaken loose by the impact. 

“I think we’ve all seen enough violence lately that we don't need to fight amongst ourselves,” he said. “What’s going on here?”

Cassandra glared at him and folded her arms across her chest. “Varric is a liar,” she said, voice dripping with contempt. “He kept Hawke from us when we needed her most. She should have been at the Conclave. If anyone could have saved Most Holy, it was her. He could have prevented all of this!”

“Varric’s not responsible for what happened at the Conclave,” Owain reminded her.

“I was protecting my friend!” Varric protested. “Was I supposed to trust someone who kidnapped me? Interrogated me? Hawke is here now. That’s the important thing. We’re all on the same side!”

“I know whose side you’re on, Varric, and it’s not the Inquisition’s!”

“That’s a bit unfair, Cassandra,” Owain said, warningly. Cassandra snorted and turned her head aside. “Varric’s earned his place here, like the rest of us. And we can’t change the past.”

Varric exhaled triumphantly, but Owain cut him off with a stern look. “Don’t,” he said. “Any more lies, and you’re done here.”

Varric sighed and nodded. “I understand,” he said and turned to go. “You know what I think? I think if Hawke had been at the Conclave, she would be dead, too, and we’d _still_ be in this mess. She deserves some peace. You people have done enough to her.” He disappeared down the stairs. 

Owain sighed and turned back to Cassandra, who was now leaning on her elbows over the railing, facing away from him. He approached slowly and leaned back beside her, his arms crossed over his chest. He said nothing and looked at his feet, waiting. He knew she would get impatient and start talking, eventually. 

He was right. “I believed him,” she said, shaking her head. “He spun his story for me, and I just swallowed it. This all could have been different. If only I had explained to him why we needed her, if only I had made him understand.”

“You don't know that, Cassandra,” Owain replied gently. “It might not have changed anything. And maybe Varric is right, and Hawke would have just died at the Conclave, like everyone else. What's done is done.”

She looked up at him. “When we first considered reviving the Inquisition, Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but she had disappeared. So then we looked for Hawke. She was the Champion of Kirkwall and a mage; she would have been respected.” She sighed again. “But honestly, she may not even have agreed to become Inquisitor.” 

She pushed off the railing and paced around the room, settling on a chair by the table in the center. “This isn't really about Varric,” she said after a moment, leaning her head down in her hands. “Or Hawke. _I_ should have known. I should have been smarter. I should have seen through his lies. I should have been there at the Conclave to protect Most Holy.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Cassandra,” Owain said, pulling up a chair to sit opposite her. “You can’t beat yourself up over what could have been. I meant what I said back in Haven. The Inquisition was the right thing to do, and none of it would have happened without you. I believed in you. I still do.” 

She raised her head to look at him again, eyes glittering in the dim light. 

“Plus, it’s nice to know I was your _third_ choice,” he added, smiling faintly. 

She stood and put a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her touch radiating through her gloves and his coat, and he couldn’t help imagining how it might feel without all those layers of cloth and leather. 

“Maybe if we had found Hawke or the Hero of Ferelden, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you,” she said quietly. “But he did. You’re not what I pictured. But I don’t regret that, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that i know less than nothing.” 

He reached a hand up to cover hers. Her fingers slipped through his as she pulled away. 

\--

If Owain had learned anything from Haven, it was a realization of the limits of his own power. Their enemies were only going to get stronger, and he needed to be stronger, too. The last few years in the Circle had made him complacent about advancing his own abilities. He couldn’t afford that now. 

He needed to know more about the anchor, about the powers it gave him. Yes, he used it to close rifts, but remembering Corypheus’s words, he had the sense there was much more to it. Perhaps there were ways to manipulate the Veil, to draw on the power of the Fade and use it to his advantage on the battlefield. 

He went to Solas, who seemed to know about such things. Instead of the lecture he expected, the elf handed him a stack of books and told him to come back once he had finished them. Owain sighed and took them back to his quarters, memories of his lessons at the Circle flashing in his mind. 

He selected a volume at random and headed out to the castle grounds, intending to find a quiet corner up on the battlements where he could read in peace, away from the constant construction noise that echoed off the stone walls. On the way to the stairs, he saw Cassandra perched on a rock outside the forge with a book of her own, and he changed direction. She looked up as he approached.

“I didn’t know you were a reader,” he said.

“Is there a problem with that?” she asked, defensively. She noticed the tome tucked under his arm. “I didn’t know you read either.”

“Well, no one ever bats an eye at a mage carrying a book,” he shrugged. “Do you mind if I join you?”

She shook her head and turned back to her reading. He sat down under a nearby tree and leaned back against the trunk. 

He flipped to the first page and began. It was a treatise on the Veil, with notes from a study on fade rifts. He found it surprisingly interesting. Perhaps there was something here that could explain his experiences with the mark.

From the edge of his vision, he could see Cassandra look up periodically and steal a glance at him with a guilty cast to her eyes. It amused him, and he could feel a smile tugging at his lips. He was sorely tempted to meet her gaze and catch her in the act, but he set himself a challenge to resist for as long as possible. 

“What are you reading?” she asked, at last. It gratified him that she broke first. 

He looked at the cover before answering. “ _Power Bleeds: Harness the Flow,_ ” he said. “Title’s a bit dramatic, but it's quite interesting so far. I'm hoping it will tell me more about harnessing the power of the rifts.”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “That sounds very… practical.”

“I hope so,” he said. “And you?”

“It's… nothing,” she said. “Just something frivolous. Nothing that would interest you.”

“ _You_ , frivolous?” Owain laughed, arching his brows. “Now that's where you're wrong. Sounds like something _highly_ interesting to me.”

Cassandra made a disgusted sound and looked away. When she looked back, he was still waiting for her. He wasn't going to let her dodge that easily. “It's… literature,” she said finally. “Smutty literature. It's one of Varric’s books, the latest chapter of _Swords and Shields_.” 

“Latest chapter?” he said, playfully. “Meaning you've read them all? You must be quite the fan then.”

“Don’t tell Varric!” she said, hastily. “I couldn’t stand the smug look on his face if he knew I read his books.” She sighed, a bit dreamily. “They’re _terrible..._ and also _magnificent_. This one ends in a cliffhanger, but I know he’s working on the next one. He must be.”

Owain smiled, watching her. 

“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. “Why are you smiling?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t expect you to be such a romantic, Cassandra.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said, defensive again. “You think because I am a warrior, because I wear armor instead of frilly dresses, I can’t be romantic? Romance is _passion_. It’s being swept away by the pursuit of an ideal. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all,” he replied, taken aback by the strength of her response. “I quite like this side of you.” And he did. One of the many unexpected things he liked about her. 

“I do not swoon,” she said, with a huff.

“I meant the passion,” he said, smiling again.

“Well, isn’t this _adorable_ ,” Dorian interrupted, breezing past the forge and spotting them sitting outside. “And they told me the library wouldn't be finished for weeks. So we’re reading out of doors now? No one invited me.”

“Just an impromptu reading break, Dorian,” Owain said, looking up at the Tevinter. “You're welcome to join if you like.” 

“Ah. Well I'd have to find something decent in the Inquisition’s collection first,” Dorian replied. “You really ought to put someone on that, Trevelyan. The selection is rather _basic_ at the moment.” He noticed the book in Cassandra’s hands. “I see you’re reading your favorite torrid novels again, Seeker.”

“No one asked you, _Tevinter!_ ” Cassandra glared at him.

He waved her off. “I couldn't even finish the one you lent me, it was so bad. I actually feel dumber for having tried. At any rate, you seem to be doing well enough without me. I'll leave you to it.” He waggled his eyebrows at Owain and then sauntered off in the direction of the main keep.

“Maybe _I_ should read this book if you like it so much,” Owain said, turning back to Cassandra, who was still burning holes in Dorian’s back with her eyes.

“You? No!” she exclaimed, mildly horrified.

“Why not? You lent it to Dorian, apparently.”

“That's different! You… you're the Inquisitor.”

“So?” he replied. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Owain himself didn’t yet know what it meant. A crease split his brow and a real worry occurred to him. Was this how she saw him? As The Inquisitor, larger than life?

“You can’t possibly…” she spluttered. “You… have much more important things to worry about, I’m sure. Although...” She looked down at the book in her lap and considered for a moment before blurting out her next words. “You _could_ find out if Varric is working on the next chapter. You could command him to-” She checked herself suddenly, and her expression clouded over. 

“Pretend you don’t know this about me,” she snapped. And then she rose and stalked off back into the tower. 

Owain sat there, stunned for a second, before laughing to himself. So there was a soft heart beating under Cassandra’s armored shell. If she wanted him to forget it, that was one request he had no intention of honoring. 

\--

Persuading Varric to write the next chapter of _Swords and Shields_ was surprisingly easy. Marion Hawke had just arrived in Skyhold, and Owain found the two of them catching up over drinks in the newly rebuilt tavern. 

“Wait, you’re saying _Cassandra_ reads my stories?” Varric had asked incredulously while Hawke snickered into her pint next to him. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Cassandra? Tall, grumpy Seeker? Likes to stab things?” 

“Maybe she wants to use it for sword practice, like your last one,” Hawke smirked, slouching back into her chair.

“Not until she’s read it at least five times,” Owain said. “Look, it’d be a hell of a peace offering. I know the two of you don’t exactly get along, but would you do it? As a favor for me?”

Varric had sat back in his chair and studied him for a moment. “You really are trying to impress her, huh? Alright, Ser Owain, I’ll do it.” He shook his head and laughed again. “I can’t believe she reads the _romance_ serial. The fact that it’s so terrible almost makes me want to do it even more.”

That was a week ago, and Varric had made good on his promise. Owain carried the finished manuscript with him as he walked down to the forge and Cassandra’s usual haunt. She was nowhere in sight, but he sat down anyway. She would turn up eventually. He cracked open the book and started reading. 

_Maker, this really is terrible._ He groaned at some of Varric’s particularly colorful prose. It only made Cassandra’s devotion to it all the more endearing. 

She walked by a few minutes later and stopped in front of him. She noted the cover of the book in his hands and frowned. “So you are reading it after all.”

“I am,” Owain said, barely keeping the grin off his face. “The latest chapter, in fact. Just came out today.”

“Wh- what?” Cassandra asked, her expression a confusion of surprise and cautious excitement. 

“Fresh off the presses,” he said, closing the book and handing it to her. He let his smile off its leash. 

“You,” she said, looking at the book and then back at him. “You did this. For me?” Her eyes were wide with happy disbelief. 

He nodded. “But it's Varric you should be thanking, really. Especially after your fight earlier.”

“Ugh,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “I told you not to tell him.”

“Well, I don't think he would’ve believed me if I said _I_ was his biggest fan,” he said, smirking. “I'm not _that_ convincing.”

She sighed. “Alright,” she said grudgingly. “I'll talk to him.” 

She walked a few steps away and then halted, turning back and giving him one of her beautiful, disarming smiles. He was never quite ready for them. “Thank you, Owain,” she said. Then she sat down and immediately started reading. The rare use of his given name made his heart swell. 

He picked up the other book he'd brought with him, another one of Solas’s assigned texts. He looked up at Cassandra every now and then, but there were no furtive glances this time. She was too engrossed in her reading. He found he didn't even mind.


	9. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owain's backstory.

Althea made a slow circuit around the room, marveling at the rich furnishings that decorated the Inquisitor’s quarters at Skyhold. The ornate fireplace, the elaborate stained glass windows that framed a breathtaking view of the Frostbacks. “Maker,” she breathed, laughing at the large four-poster in the center of the room. “I think your bed alone is bigger than our rooms at the Circle.”

“Don’t forget the private wine cellar to your left,” Owain smirked, sitting down at his desk, which was also enormous. “Though... is it still a cellar if we’re in a tower?” He tapped a finger on his chin and turned his eyes up in mock contemplation. 

“Ass.” She rolled her eyes at him. 

He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. 

“So this is what you get for being Inquisitor,” Althea said, crossing the floor to him. She leaned back on the edge of the desk, propping herself up with her hands and crossing her legs at the ankles. Her head swiveled around the room again. “Not bad.”

“Well, they do make me work for it,” he replied, gesturing at the tall stack of reports in front of him. “Speaking of work,” he said, taking in her new Inquisition scout uniform, “Leliana tells me you’ve volunteered. I didn’t think she accepted mages as agents.” 

“She doesn’t, usually,” Althea explained. “It's a bit of an experiment. But we expect that some magical expertise in advance parties will be a good thing, especially as we start investigating Corypheus and the Venatori. There's only a handful of us so far. We’ll be embedded in her scouting units.”

“It’s a dangerous job,” he said. 

“I can handle myself,” she replied, tossing her brown braid over her shoulder. 

“I know. I told Leliana she was lucky to have you. Where’s your first assignment?”

“Crestwood. We leave tomorrow morning.”

“Makes sense,” Owain said, thinking out loud. “Hawke told us her Warden contact is somewhere in the region, but Cullen and Leliana want a thorough lay of the land before we move in.”

“There have been rumors of demons and undead terrorizing the village,” she added. “That whole area of Ferelden was heavily hit during the last blight. It may have affected the Veil there. I expect we’ll find more than a few rifts for you to close.”

They lapsed into friendly silence for a few minutes as Owain scanned the morning summaries from his advisors. Althea picked up the objects on his desk and examined them one by one. 

“So, tell me more about your Commander,” she said with a sly smile as she rattled his box of quills. “The grumpy one in the fur coat who never smiles. He’s rather dashing.”

Owain thought for a moment. “You mean Cullen? He’s a recovering Templar. Hardly your type.” Althea, as a rule, hated all Templars and everything they represented.

“What would _you_ know about my type?” she challenged, her brow arched at a dangerous angle. She didn't wait for an answer but pursed her lips wickedly. “Oh, but I know all about _yours_. Or are you the only one who's allowed to fuck Templars?”

“She is _not_ a Templar, and we are not fucking.”

“No? Have you not done anything about that yet? Really.” Her look was a mix of pity and exasperation. She pushed off the desk and faced him. “Are you afraid she'll say no?”

“No.” He was afraid she would say yes. He was afraid to have her, because it would kill him to lose her. And there were so many ways to lose her. “It’s complicated, Thea.”

“Ugh.” She gave him an exaggerated eyeroll and walked over to the fireplace, where she stared into the flames and watched them follow her hand as she waved it slowly. Her voice was serious when she spoke. “We’re at war, you know. Any of us could die at any moment. You don’t have time to waste dithering around with your _complications_.” She sighed and shook her head before turning to him again. “Honestly, Owain. Sometimes I think you're the architect of your own unhappiness. You're not in the Circle anymore; you don't have to keep living like you are.”

There was far more truth in her words than he could stand right now. He looked away and shuffled the papers on his desk. 

“Was there an _actual_ reason you came all the way up here?” he said, trying to change the subject. “That’s an awful lot of stairs to climb just to lecture me about my love life.”

“I would climb _any_ number of stairs to lecture you about your love life- you know that,” she replied, smirking again. “But actually, yes. There was a reason.” She produced a small sealed letter from her coat pocket and placed it on the desk in front of him.

“I know you asked Leliana and Josephine to put aside all the letters from your Trevelyan relations, but I saw this and thought you might want to see it. It’s from your brother.”

Owain looked at the letter in shock. He picked it up and read the directions, twice. He held it between his fingers and tapped it slowly on the desk, deep in thought. 

“I haven’t heard a word from Merric since the day I left home. He could have been dead for all I knew. _I_ could have been dead for all _he_ knew.”

He tossed the letter lightly back on the desk. 

“You’re not even going to open it?”

“Twenty years at the Circle, and he never once wrote,” Owain said, years of stored up bitterness and anger leaching rapidly into his blood. “Not even when our mother died. I had to hear about that later, from a near stranger.” He paused and stood abruptly, his chair scraping the stone floor behind him. He looked out the window for a moment before continuing. “I would expect that from my father, but from Merric? He’s a grown man. He could have contacted me years ago if he wanted to. What could he possibly have to say to me now? All of a sudden I'm the Inquisitor and he wants to rekindle brotherly connections?”

“Maybe there's a reason, some kind of explanation,” Althea tried. “Besides your father, he's practically the only family you have left, and you're just going to throw that away?”

“You forget,” Owain wheeled on her, his voice full of venom. “They threw me away first. A long time ago.”

It was Althea's turn to look away. 

Owain sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I just...”

“Get irrationally angry about anything to do with your family?” she supplied. Her blue eyes sparked at him.

“That’s… about right,” he sighed again, completely deflated now. “Every time I think I’m over it, every time I think I’ve let it go, it all just comes flooding back.” He sat down again and leaned back, ruffling his hands through his hair. 

“You need closure,” Althea said, her arms crossed over her chest. “Maybe what’s in that letter will help you find that.”

He tapped the missive with his fingers and looked up at her. “I’ll think about it.” He picked it up and put it away in a drawer. Then he gave her a sideways glance. “Do you think it’s too early for a drink?”

“Have I ever said yes to that question?” she smirked.

“Well, you never know,” Owain said, already pulling two glasses and a bottle of whiskey off a shelf. “People change.”

“No, they don’t,” she replied, watching him pour a healthy serving for each of them.

“I doubt your dashing Templar would approve,” he said archly as he handed her a glass. 

“Then it’s a good thing he’s not mine. Yet.” 

He smiled and clinked his glass against hers.

\--

Owain waved to the guard as he walked out the gates, headed down to a small wooded grove just outside Skyhold. He carried his staff on his back, along with three training dummies he had bundled together out of straw and twine that morning. He needed space, which was quickly becoming harder to find around Skyhold. He had tried practicing his new rift magic in the courtyard the day before and very nearly took down some scaffolding with an errant spell. Josephine had banned him from training in the yard until he had better mastered his skills. 

Besides the physical space, it was nice to gain some mental distance from the demands on his attention that seemed to bombard him constantly within the castle walls. There was an endless supply of reports and decisions that the Inquisitor was required to attend to. It felt like a rare treat to shed that mantle for a few stolen moments, however temporarily, to just be human. To just be himself. 

Afternoon sun filtered through the leafy canopy above him as he entered the grove. Shifting patterns of light and shadow dappled the soft moss and crisp leaves that alternated under his feet. Other than the occasional bird call and the stirring of the trees in a light breeze, it was quiet here. All silence and stillness.

He found a clearing among the trees and set his targets down in a rough triangle, spaced several feet apart, and he applied himself to his practice. He tried to recall Solas’s instructions on how to concentrate on the Veil, on drawing power from the Fade and applying it to the physical realm, and guiding it all with his own will and mana. 

It was hard work. After several attempts, he had still only managed to shift the targets a few inches closer together. He switched spells, working on improving the aim of his stonefist instead. He could conjure the stone consistently, but guiding it toward his intended target still took a fair amount of concentration, and it only hit its mark some of the time. 

Sheltered from the mountain winds that swept Skyhold itself, the grove was rather warm, and before long, Owain was overheated. He shed his coat, and eventually his shirt, using it to mop the sweat from his brow. His stonefist was improving, so he tried combining it with ice spells, freezing a target and then shattering it with the projectile. The pull of the abyss spell, however, still eluded him. 

He lost track of time and of himself in the magic. He focused on the energy of the Veil, reveling in the surge of power he felt as it mixed with his own strength, as he directed it and shaped it to his will. He fade-stepped back and forth, practicing his close-combat skills, mixing in his fire magic, experimenting with new combinations and sequences of spells. 

Through his haze of concentration, he heard the sudden clank of metal and crunch of fallen leaves and turned his head to see someone approaching the clearing. He readied a spell and fade-stepped in that direction, stopping about a foot behind them. The figure turned, and he recognized Cassandra, looking over her shoulder at him with a flash of startled fear on her face and one hand frozen on the hilt of her sword. 

He extinguished the flame in his hand and felt the intensity fall from his face as he returned to himself. He stepped back and breathed hard, relaxing into a slouch as he leaned on his staff. “You know, for a warrior, you really are rather stealthy, Cassandra,” he said with a tired smile. “It’s dangerous to sneak up on people like that.” 

“I was not _sneaking_ , Inquisitor,” she huffed, taking her hand off her sword and crossing her arms. “Perhaps _you_ need to keep a better awareness of your surroundings.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugged, still catching his breath. “What can I do for you, Seeker?”

“You’re wanted up at the castle,” she said. “Initial reports have come back from Crestwood, and Leliana wants to move up our departure to tomorrow at daybreak. She and Cullen want to review the plan with you before we make final preparations.”

“There’s always something, isn’t there?” he sighed, looking at Cassandra before turning to collect his practice targets. She followed him back into the clearing. 

“What were you doing here?” she asked. “You’ve been gone for hours.”

“Training,” he said, launching into an explanation of the skills he had been trying to master. “There’s this one spell I can’t quite get. It involves using the energy of the Veil to create a tiny rift to pull enemies to a central location. It would do a great deal to help control the field of battle. But I can’t seem to tune my mana to the right frequency to tear the Veil in just the right way…”

Cassandra looked at him and smiled, slowly. 

“What?” he said, pausing his speech to look up at her. 

“You’re starting to sound like Solas.”

“Hah.” Owain laughed and ran a hand through his hair. Sweat made it stand more on end than usual. He squinted at her, a half-smile on his lips. “Promise you’ll kill me before that happens?”

“With pleasure.”

She smiled at him again, and he could feel her eyes lingering on his bare torso. He was suddenly self-conscious and picked up his shirt, pulling it on over his head. A more demure woman might have looked away, he thought, but he doubted anyone had ever accused Cassandra of being demure. The thought warmed his blood ever so slightly. 

“Your scars,” she said with her brows knitted, watching him as he worked the laces at his neck. “How did you get those?”

He had more than a few scars, but he knew which ones she meant. The blistered skin that ran from his collar down the right side of his body, down his arm and to the bottom of his rib cage. Time had faded it to a tracery of pale, raised lines across his shoulder, chest, and back. It licked up the side of his neck and kissed his right cheek. 

He was silent for a few moments, stilling his fingers as he thought about how much he wanted to tell her and finally deciding to keep nothing back. He picked up his coat and shook it out, pausing a moment to look at the Inquisition emblem catching a spot of sunlight.

“I don’t mean to intrude, if it’s a sensitive topic…” Cassandra looked at him, uncertain. 

“No, you should know.” Owain threw the coat over his shoulder and sat down on a large rock. His eyes went distant as he told his story.

“My magic manifested when I was almost thirteen. A little late, comparatively speaking. I was terrified. My father hated all things related to magic, and my mother was a devout Andrastian. Our entire family was built around our devotion to the Chantry, and being a mage felt like a betrayal of everything I’d been raised to believe in. I didn’t tell anyone. I managed to hide it for months.

“It was my brother’s sixteenth birthday. My father held a small tournament in his honor, hoping to finally make a man out of him. Or at least the kind of man he thought his heir should be. Merric was never much into riding or swordsmanship. He preferred his books and studies. I was the athletic one, but nothing I did was ever good enough for our father. There was always something more, something I could do better. Looking back, I see how he manipulated us and controlled us. I would have given _anything_ for his approval back then.”

Owain looked down at his hands and continued. 

“Anyway, Father pitted us against each other, as he always did. He knew exactly what to say to provoke us, and put tremendous pressure on both of us. And something in me just _broke_. We were fighting on horseback, and my magic flared. I couldn’t control it, so it burned me. The fire was trapped in the lining of my armor. My horse bolted and threw me clear, but Merric’s reared and fell on him, crushing his legs. They weren’t sure if he would walk again. 

“I had never seen my father so angry. In his mind, he lost both of his heirs that day, even though both of us were still alive. All because of magic. My magic. They barely had time to bandage me before the Templars arrived to take me to the Circle. I haven’t seen my family or my home since.”

“How terrible,” Cassandra said, simply. She studied him for a quiet moment, her eyes filled with pity. He looked up at her and saw his own pain reflected there. He felt an odd sense of relief and peace at that. The anger that had lashed out at Althea the other day was nowhere to be found. 

“I wish more parents considered their actions before inflicting the consequences on their children,” she said. She seemed to be talking about more than just his own parents. 

Owain stood and shrugged into his coat, leaving it unbuttoned. He hoisted the straw targets over his shoulder with one hand and held his staff in the other. “It made me who I am,” he said, as they set off on the path back to Skyhold. “Ironically, sending me to the Circle probably saved my life. The healers did everything they could, and I still took months to recover. It was more than I might have gotten if I’d stayed at my father’s house. The scars are ugly, but I like to think it just discourages me from excessive vanity.”

“I don’t think they’re ugly,” Cassandra said quietly, looking sideways at him. “As you said, they are part of who you are. Your history and the path you have walked.”

He met her gaze and smiled. “Well, now you’ve done it. I’ll be swanning around like Dorian if you keep that up.” 

She made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes at him.

“So how does it feel then, knowing all my secrets?” 

Cassandra thought for a moment before answering. “I think I understand you better, knowing this.” She met his eyes again, and her look said more than her words could. He felt _understood_ in a way he hadn’t since he joined the Inquisition, like she was seeing him--really seeing him--for the first time. And she wasn’t repulsed by what she saw. Rather, the opposite. He had no words to say to that. It overwhelmed him. 

They walked together, side by side, until the gates of Skyhold came into view. “Inquisitor. Seeker.” The guard saluted them as they passed through. Their titles and masks snapped back into place as they headed into the keep, and it felt like a loss.


	10. Rocks and Hard Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, there are no good choices.

It was raining when they arrived in Crestwood. Owain shook water from his hair as he ducked into the tent for his briefing, and he could hear it pelting the canvas with an endless drumbeat while Lace Harding gave her report. 

“Crestwood has been overrun by demons and undead ever since the breach opened,” she explained. “Most of the residents have fled to safer ground, but the mayor is still holed up there. We’re pretty sure he knows more than he's letting on, but he won't talk to us. Maybe you'll have better luck, Inquisitor.”

“Any idea about the source of the undead?” he asked.

“We traced them back to the lake,” Althea said, picking up for Scout Harding and pointing to the map spread on the table between them. “It's as we expected- all the activity during the blight has thinned the Veil here, and the surge of energy from the Breach broke it open. We've located a number of rifts in the region, but this one is the largest. Based on our measurements, the epicenter should be located below the lake itself.”

“The village on the hill is actually _new_ Crestwood,” Harding added. “The area where the lake is now was the old town. It seems to have flooded some time near the end of the last blight. We’re hoping there’s a way to drain it again, but you’ll have to figure out how. I suggest you start with the mayor.”

Their direction clear, Owain nodded and headed back outside to follow Harding’s advice. The mud sucked at his feet as they trudged up the road to Crestwood village. He tried to remember what it felt like to be dry but couldn’t. 

They passed empty fields and abandoned buildings as they neared the outskirts of town. The screeching of demons punctuated the constant patter of rain, and the green glow of wraiths flitted in the gloom at the edges of the fields. Owain ignored them, for now. There would be plenty of that later. 

The town was built into the side of a hill, rows of buildings perched on terraces. There was no one outside. The only signs of habitation were the twitch of curtains at windows and the hint of eyes through doors cracked and quickly closed as they passed. 

Owain picked one such door and rapped his knuckles on it. There was no response, but he heard the scuffle of feet inside and knocked again. It opened after a long pause, and an old woman glared out at him. “What do you want?” she said, running her eyes over him with clear distaste. 

He swallowed the glib response on his tongue and cleared his throat, putting on his most diplomatic face. “Pardon the intrusion. We’re looking for the mayor. Could you point us in the right direction?”

“Who’s asking?” she spat.

“The Inquisition.”

“The what? Never heard of you.”

“No?” Owain furrowed his brows. He'd gotten used to a different kind of response. “The Herald of Andraste? The Breach? Ever heard of them?”

“Nah.” She slammed the door in his face. He stood there stunned for a moment.

“Tough crowd, boss,” the Iron Bull’s bass intoned from over his shoulder. Varric chuckled from somewhere to his left.

Owain shrugged and walked on. He spotted a larger, finer-looking house near the top of the village and decided to try there. The type of house a mayor might live in, he reasoned. As they approached the door, there was a sign telling him he was right: “Mayor Gregory Dedrick.” 

“Well, that’s helpful,” he muttered before knocking. 

A tired-looking man opened the door just wide enough for his face to peer out at them suspiciously. 

“Greetings,” Owain began, polite again. “Are you the mayor of Crestwood?”

“Aye,” he replied. “And who are you?”

“We’re with the Inquisition.”

“I told your people at the lake to get out while you still can. We’re overrun here.”

“That’s what we’re here for, actually,” Owain explained. “We just need some information-”

“Forget it,” the man cut him off. “There’s nothing you can do.” He made to shut the door. 

Cassandra stepped forward and kicked her foot in the gap. “Listen, you fool,” she said, with steel in her voice. “This is the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. He closed the breach in the sky, and he can close that rift in the lake. All we need of you is information. Or will you sit here and wait for death because you could not be bothered to talk to us?”

At first, Dedrick seemed shocked by her directness, but then he relented. He sighed and slumped his shoulders as he opened the door and walked back into his home, motioning for them to follow. Owain shot Cassandra a look of gratitude as they crossed the threshold. She nodded at him. 

“The undead started coming out of the lake after that green light appeared,” Dedrick said wearily, standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. “Most of the people have gone. It’s all the rest of us can do to keep them out of the main village. My men are exhausted. The fields are neglected. I’ve sent to Denerim for help, but the crown does nothing. At this rate, we’ll either starve to death or die before the end of the season.” He shook his head and sighed again.

“Our scouts have traced the problem to a rift under the lake,” Owain said. “Is there anything you can tell us about what may be under there or why there are so many undead?”

The mayor was quiet for a moment. Wrinkles lined his face, and thinning grey hair was slicked back over his head. He looked suddenly older, and his voice sounded pained when he spoke. “The Herald of Andraste, eh?” He studied Owain and then seemed to make up his mind about something.

“Old Crestwood,” he explained. “It was built over Dwarven ruins. The rift must be there, in the caves under the village. It all flooded at the end of the last blight. We had taken in refugees that were infected with the blight sickness, and the darkspawn followed them here. They destroyed the dam controls and flooded the lake during the attack. We lost many of our people that day...” He trailed off into a thoughtful silence.

“To stop the undead, we’ll need to close that rift,” Owain said. “Is there a way to drain the lake again?”

“There’s a mechanism on the dam on the other side of the lake, but to get there you need to go through Caer Bronach. Used to be a Ferelden stronghold, but it’s been taken over by bandits since the undead appeared. You’ll have to get rid of them first if you want to control the dam.”

“Sounds like something we could help with,” Owain offered. 

Dedrick nodded. “Those walls would have gone a long way to protecting us against the undead. Here, take this key. You’ll need it to reach the dam.” 

“Very well,” Owain said, pocketing the key and turning to leave. “Anything else we should know?”

“Whatever you find down there at the bottom of the lake,” the mayor said as he walked them to the door, “don’t judge us too harshly.”

\--

Caer Bronach towered over them like a colossus as they crept along the shore of the lake just below. The dark bulk of it faded into the heavy clouds above, still dumping their contents onto the hapless people on the ground. Owain pushed back his hood for more visibility. It had ceased keeping his head dry ages ago. 

Inquisition scouts had gone ahead and assessed the fort’s defenses. The walls were high and sheer- no real weaknesses to exploit there. The hold was home to maybe two dozen men, mostly garden variety thugs, give or take a few mabari and a handful of archers. They had styled themselves the Highwaymen- bandits weren’t known for their originality. There was, however, another entry to the castle down on the beach somewhere that ran through a small underground cave system and up into the fortress. Outnumbered as they were, surprise would be a welcome advantage. 

They reached an area where the rock face met the sandy shore, and Owain spotted a narrow entrance cut into the earth, obscured by some overgrown brush. Pushing the plants aside and lighting his way with a small flame, he found an iron gate set several feet into the stone. He tried the door, and it was locked, of course. 

“Varric?” Owain called over his shoulder, moving aside to let the dwarf into the narrow passage. He stepped back to wait beside Althea and Cassandra. Iron Bull took up the rear. 

Varric cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, reaching for the tools at his belt. His picks clicked in the lock and the bolt squealed as it slid back. Varric bowed as he pushed the door open. “After you, Ser Owain.”

He led the way into the tunnel, which ran deep into the rock at the castle’s base. It ended in a wide chamber containing a narrow wooden staircase. It was dark here. Owain and Althea’s magic was the only light. 

He tested the stairs before committing his weight, but they seemed solid enough, and he climbed them quietly, stopping to listen at the wooden hatch that covered its top. He heard faint voices of at least two people above and signalled to the others below. They would have to move quickly and overwhelm these men before they had time to alert the rest. 

Owain threw open the hatch and jumped up into some kind of storeroom. It was longer than it was wide, its walls lined with barrels and wooden crates. Three bandits sat at a small table at the far end, looking stunned to see him and his companions bursting into the room. Their mouths were agape; one man still held his mug of ale in the air, stalled in its trip from the table to his mouth. 

Owain lost no time, fade-stepping toward them and throwing down an ice mine to freeze them in place. He looked around for a more lasting way to restrain them and spotted coils of rope in one of the corners. 

“Tie them up,” he said, nodding at the men. “No need to make this more bloody than necessary.” 

He walked to the door and cracked it just wide enough to peek outside. It opened onto the main courtyard of the keep. He could see a few bandits keeping watch. An archer patrolled the top of the walls at an easy pace. All looked calm. 

He closed the door again quietly. The plan was for Harding and the other Inquisition scouts to approach the fortress from the road, sniping at the bandits guarding the entrance, generally causing chaos, and drawing attention to the front gate. Meanwhile, Owain and his team would attack from within, taking advantage of the confusion to strike decisively. 

With the bandits in the storeroom securely gagged and tied, there was nothing to do but wait. Bull picked up one of the mugs on the table and sniffed it before shrugging and draining it. Althea looked askance at him, and Cassandra made a disgusted sound. 

“Oh, that’s good stuff,” Bull said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s hope there’s more of that around once this is over.”

Owain breathed out a laugh, but his ear was still tuned to any noises from outside. A moment later, a cry of alarm went up, and he opened the door to peer out again. He could see the bandits hustling toward the gate and taking up arms. He held a hand up to the others in the room, and they readied their weapons. Varric loaded Bianca, and Althea threw up her barriers, spectral blade at the ready. 

As a small group of bandits ran past, Owain nodded to his party and kicked open the door, rushing out into the courtyard. He stepped out to that initial group and put down an array of fire mines, which burst into flames as the men waffled in confusion. Bull, Cassandra, and Althea charged forward to engage them just as more Highwaymen, alerted to the intrusion, turned back from the diversion at the gate and joined the fray in the yard. 

Owain kept to the outer edges of the battle, well out of the way of the clashing swords and shields of the warriors. His flame walls and mines kept the enemies positioned as needed, for Varric to pick off stragglers or for Iron Bull to catch them in his deadly whirlwind. 

Varric called a warning to him as an enemy rogue dropped out of stealth behind him and swung a dagger at his neck. Owain ducked just in time, feeling the whoosh of the woman’s knife come dangerously close to its target. He lashed out with his staff, catching her torso with the tip of his blade as she jumped back. He thrust forward quickly to press his advantage, but she dodged and used her superior speed to flank him. He spun and caught her attack with a block, feeling the sharp daggers bite into the wood of his staff. Grunting, he pushed them up and away and followed with a kick to the gut. She reeled backwards, and he pulled his hand up to cast an explosion at her feet, immolating her where she landed. 

He had barely a second to breathe before an arrow came whistling through the air near his head. He looked up, and another came winging down from the battlements and lodged itself deep in his left shoulder. Piercing pain flooded his senses, and the impact of it sent him spinning on his feet. _Shit._

He dragged himself to the low wall Varric was using for cover, his right hand clutching at his wound. It came away covered in blood, and he blinked at it numbly, trying to push away the panic and collect his own thoughts. 

Another volley of arrows came down into the main fray, some hitting flesh and others splintering into the stone floor. Cassandra blocked one with her shield, and another hit Bull squarely in the chest. It rang off his armor, and he responded with a roar, swinging into his enemies with even greater fury. 

“Varric!” Owain shouted at the dwarf beside him. “I need those archers off those walls!”

“I’m on it!” Varric said, loading Bianca with an explosive bolt. He loosed it at one of the archers, who erupted into flames and ran screaming off the wall. Owain launched a stonefist at another archer, knocking him from his perch to the unforgiving ground. Varric took out the rest, much to Owain’s relief. That last spell had been costly. He sat back, panting, still trying to staunch the bleeding from his wound. 

The battle was quieting now. Most of the bandits lay defeated. Two were slowly backing away from Bull as he advanced on them, and Althea was chasing a swift rogue up the stairs. Cassandra, however, was facing off against one remaining warrior. He was tall and broad, and from the look of his armor, a particularly hardened fighter. The leader of the Highwaymen, perhaps? His weapon was a two-handed maul, and even at this distance, Owain could tell it was of finer make than that of the average bandit. 

The Seeker and the bandit circled each other with a singular focus, both breathing heavily, both splattered with mud and the blood of their enemies. The others actually paused their fighting to watch, both sides curious about who would win this matchup. The bandit struck first, letting out a roar as he rushed forward for a heavy strike. Cassandra caught it with her shield, but the blow clearly winded her and left a large dent in the metal of her shield. 

The bandit chief laughed. “Chantry bitch. Are you the best they could send to root us out of this fortress? Hah! I can’t decide if I should kill you before or after I fuck that tall warrior cunt of yours.” He spat on the ground and leered menacingly at her.

Anger seethed in Owain at the insult, and he struggled to sit up straighter. Varric held him down. “Easy there, Ser Owain. The Lady Seeker can take care of herself. Wouldn’t want the Inquisitor bleeding out on us now, would we?”

He knew it was useless to argue, and whatever threats he might make, he was powerless to back them up in his current state anyway. It disgusted him, this helplessness. It was almost worse than the pain stabbing him in the shoulder.

Cassandra appeared unfazed, of course. She dodged the bandit’s next attack and ducked into his space before he could recover, slicing under his arm at a gap in his armor. He reared back in pain before lunging forward in another brazen attempt. She was ready for him and ducked again, bashing into him with her shield and all of her weight behind it. Her attack threw him off balance, and she landed another blow at his side, stabbing up under his breastplate. 

The bandit staggered back now, blood dripping visibly from his wounds. He leaned on his weapon and laughed again. “Not bad, I’ll give you that. Beaten by a wench. Fuck.” He shook his head before adjusting his hold on his maul, readying himself for one last charge. He rushed toward Cassandra, who stood her ground and parried his blow easily. With a grunt of effort, she bashed at him again and sent him stumbling to the ground. He struggled to get up but fell, dropping his weapon and wincing in pain, on his hands and knees on the wet stone. 

Cassandra threw her shield aside and gripped her sword with both hands as she stepped toward him. “Do it!” he screamed at her, and she obliged, taking his head off with a single, clean slice. 

It was quiet for a moment, then the remaining bandits threw their weapons to the ground in surrender. It was over, and Caer Bronach was theirs. 

Owain watched in awe as Cassandra wrenched her helmet off and stood, exhausted, gulping in air. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat and rain, and her eyes blazed with triumph, and still, she left him speechless. A small smile curled his lips. He would never _not_ be impressed by her prowess and strength, her warrior’s grace. She turned, searching the yard, and her eyes widened in fear when she spotted him, slumped as he was against the wall with the arrow still in his shoulder. She dropped her helm and ran towards him. 

Pain was starting to take over now. He felt cold and dazed. Sounds were muffled. He could see Althea by his side already, scared, yelling something at him as she held his mouth open and poured a potion down his throat. He felt a jerk as Varric cut the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder, and heat as Althea worked healing magic into his wound. All of it was happening to someone else. Cassandra reached them and knelt in front of him. Her lips moved, saying something he couldn’t hear. Darkness blurred in from the edges of his vision, and then he could remember no more.

\--

He woke late the next evening feeling immeasurably better. The magic and potions had done their work. He tested his shoulder, and it was stiff under its bandage, but the pain had dulled to a slow throb. They had moved him indoors at some point, and he was pleased to realize his clothes were almost dry for the first time in days. 

He went outside to find that the rest of his party had built a large, blazing fire in a pit in the courtyard and were gathered around it, enjoying well-earned food and drink. The fortress was, as Bull had hoped, well stocked. The rain had fizzled into a light mist for the time being, and it was a small joy just to be outside and not be soaked to the bone. 

Owain found an empty spot on a bench next to Althea, though he sat on the ground and leaned back against the wood, preferring to stretch out his legs and support his injured shoulder. 

“You’re finally up,” she said, smiling and handing him a plate of warm stew and a mug of ale that could not have been more welcome. He wolfed it down, content to simply eat and listen to the banter of his companions as they nursed their drinks by the fire. Victory and alcohol were a potent recipe for high spirits.

“So, Althea, you’ve known our Inquisitor for a long time,” Varric said, his tone playful. “You must have stories about him from way back when. What was he like before he was touched by Andraste?”

“Oh, not so different,” she began, turning to look at Owain. His mouth was full of stew, so he raised a brow at her, unsure how she'd answer the question. “Maybe a little younger and dumber.” She smirked and crossed her legs. “We caused a fair amount of trouble in our Circle days. He used to get caught sneaking to my room in the middle of the night. More than once.”

“Stealth has never been one my gifts,” Owain quipped between bites of food.

“I don't even know how many times they tried to punish you for it,” she said. “Locking you in your room? Skipping meals? Cleaning the latrines?”

“But was it worth it?” Bull interjected. “That's the important thing.”

Owain shrugged noncommittally. 

“Oh, please,” Althea scoffed. “Fuck you, Owain Trevelyan.” 

“Well...” he said archly into his mug.

She gave him a look of outrage and a hard shove, making him spill ale down his front. 

“Now look what you made me do. And my shirt only just dried,” he said, laughing. He brushed the liquid off his coat and flicked it at her. 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Anyway,” she continued smugly. “I did the sneaking after that. And _I_ never got caught.”

Owain stared into the fire and smiled at memories of what felt like such innocent times now. Young and dumb, yes. That he was. He felt eyes on him and looked up to find they were Cassandra’s. She turned away quickly, and he frowned slightly at that. 

“Well, Varric,” Althea went on. “If we're going to talk about our love lives, how about you? Is Bianca named for a real person, or just a bit of wishful thinking?”

“Maybe a little bit of both,” Varric replied, smirking. “And a whole lot of none of your business.”

“Oh, come now!” Althea persisted. “You started this, after all!” 

“It's more than a bit complicated,” he said, shaking his head. “And it’s the one story I’ll never tell. All I can say is, we dwarves can sure be stuck in our ways.” Then he grinned wickedly and turned to Cassandra on the bench beside him. “But what about the Lady Seeker? Aren't we going around the circle here?”

“Yes!” Althea said, leaning forward with interest. “How about it, Cassandra? Any conquests to report?”

“Other than what you did to that bandit out there yesterday,” Iron Bull added, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “That was… _Mm._ You know, if you ever need any help, working out any frustration back at Skyhold…”

“Never going to happen, Bull,” Cassandra said flatly.

“Aw.”

She sighed. “There _was_ someone, once. He was a mage. We adventured together when I was young. He was dashing, unlike anyone I had ever known. But that was a long time ago, and what we had was fleeting.”

“A mage! How romantic!” Althea exclaimed. Owain could sense her looking at him meaningfully, daring him to make eye contact, but he refused. He bowed his head and studied the cup in his hand instead. It was far too empty. “And what about now?” she pressed on. “No more _recent_ affairs? No one else has caught your eye since?”

“I’d... rather not talk about that right now,” Cassandra replied quietly.

“Are you blushing, Seeker?” Varric chuckled. “Maker, the world really is coming to an end.”

“Speaking of conquests…” Iron Bull jumped in, mercifully, and launched into a raucous retelling of his exploits with certain curious noblewomen in Val Royeaux. Owain stopped listening, lost in his own thoughts. So she had been with a mage before. That did explain some things. He was surprised she had shared that at all. He lifted his eyes from the flames again to meet Cassandra’s across the fire, and this time she didn’t look away. 

He caught her gaze and held it, and under the gloomy night sky, with everyone else focused on Bull’s story, it seemed almost like they were alone. He thought he read doubt in her eyes, and he tried to put everything he felt about her into his own, as if he could sweep away that uncertainty with just a look. A look that spoke of his infinite respect for her, his admiration, friendship, desire, and so much more.

And then fat drops of rain hit his face and broke the spell. 

\--

Althea and Scout Harding left in the morning to take news to Skyhold and get reinforcements to hold the fortress. Its location along the King’s Road between Ferelden and Orlais made it an ideal base for managing the Inquisition’s spy network. Leliana would be pleased. 

Owain and the rest of his party set out to finish their original task of sealing the rift under the lake, which still glowed green beneath the waters. They found the mechanism for the dam on the other side of Caer Bronach and used it to open the floodgates. They returned to the keep to wait for the water to drain. 

“You’ve all fought darkspawn, right?” Varric said, as they were walking the path back to the fortress. “And that didn’t seem odd to you?”

“What do you mean?” Owain asked.

“Those dam controls were awfully _neat_ ,” the dwarf replied. “Not the kind of condition I’d expect if darkspawn had gotten to them and flooded the lake during the blight.”

“Maybe they rebuilt it? It has been ten years.”

“Maybe.”

The ruins of Old Crestwood came into view as the water receded, and they picked their way through the rotting wooden structures, heading toward the rift near the far shore. It was a bigger settlement than the current village. Owain could still make out the beams and foundations of old homes, choked with weeds and covered in algae. There were human remains, too, throughout the old town. The villagers must have truly been caught off guard when the waters rose.

They found the caves at the edge of town and made their way through them, passing through the natural caverns and exploring the old Dwarven ruins beyond. They met little resistance- a few demons and undead here and there- until they reached the rift itself, which was protected by rage demons and an arcane horror. Like all the others, though, the rift was defeated and sealed by the mysterious power of the anchor, the abilities Owain could wield but still didn’t understand. 

They emerged from the ruins into bright, blinding sunlight that felt like a miracle after all those days of gloom and rain. The cave exit was in the hills above the village, and Owain looked down at the view and couldn’t believe it was the same place. Under a clear sky, the land was green and lush. Red rock formations jutted out of the landscape and rolled out along the hills. 

They climbed back down to deliver the news to the mayor. The village itself was changed, too. There were people in the road, children running and basking in the sunlight. When they reached the mayor’s house, the door was ajar. “If you’re looking for the mayor, he’s gone,” called a villager passing by. “Just up and left this morning!”

They entered anyway and looked around. Owain found a note on the table addressed to him. It was a confession. The truth was that Dedrick himself, not darkspawn, had flooded Old Crestwood. So many refugees had been infected with the blight, and it was spreading so quickly, the only way he saw to save the remaining villagers was to flood the town, drowning the darkspawn and the blighted with them. The undead that had terrorized Crestwood were his own people, killed by his own hand. The guilt was too much for him to stay.

“So. This is what he was afraid we’d find at the bottom of the lake,” Owain said, remembering the mayor’s parting words.

“I knew his story didn’t add up,” Varric commented.

“Coward,” Bull said. “Running away instead of facing up to it like a man.” 

“What a horrible choice,” Cassandra added. “Sacrificing the sick to save the rest of the village.”

“But they were innocent,” Owain pointed out. “They had done nothing wrong, even if letting them live would have endangered more people.” He sighed. It was a sickening amount of power, this, choosing life or death for others. How could you weigh the value of one life versus another? Even if one was infected with the blight? An impossible choice indeed.

\--

They returned to Skyhold almost two weeks later, after seeing the fortress secured by Inquisition troops and meeting with Hawke’s contact from the Wardens. Owain had just ridden through the gates and dismounted when Josephine ran out to meet them. 

“Inquisitor!” she called, clearly agitated about something. “Thank the Maker you’re here! The war room, immediately, if you please. A bird has just arrived with the most urgent news!”

Owain threw a glance back at Cassandra standing next to her horse behind him, but she merely reflected his own worry back at him. He followed Josephine into the keep, practically jogging to keep up with her. 

Leliana and Cullen were already in the room, pointing at the map and arguing heatedly as they entered. They stopped their discussion to greet him as Josephine closed the door behind them. 

“Inquisitor,” Cullen began. “It’s good you’re here. We just received a bird from one of our scouting units. They were assigned to investigate some rumors in the Emerald Graves but deviated from plans to contact and bring in another rebel mage cell. In the process, they lost their way and were pinned down by a group of Avvar in the foothills of the Frostbacks and have sent an urgent request for reinforcements.”

Cullen continued, marking locations on the map as he spoke. “Now, the only troops that could possibly reach them in time is a squad I’ve deployed to track Corypheus’s Red Templars. They finally have a good lead and are close to pinpointing the location of their base and lyrium sources. A swift bird might reach them in time, but if we call them off the search now, we’ll lose weeks of work. There’s no telling how long it will take to find the trail again.”

“But these are our people, Cullen!” Josephine interjected. “We cannot simply abandon them. If the Inquisition cannot protect our own, then how will we convince others that we can protect them?” 

“If we can find and stop these Red Templars, we could save countless more lives!” Cullen argued back. “Think of the destruction they caused at Haven. If we could head that off now, it would save much more bloodshed down the line.” He paused, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “I don't say this lightly, but all of our men are prepared to make sacrifices if necessary. And these scouts were acting outside their orders. They must have known the risks.”

They all looked at Owain then, and it slowly dawned on him that they were asking _him_ to decide. They were asking him to choose: save his own scouts and this group of allied rebel mages, or forsake them for the chance to find these Red Templars and cut short whatever evil they were doing in Corypheus’s service. What was more important? A few certain deaths now, or the chance to avoid unknown but countless deaths in the future? 

“There’s one more thing you should know,” Leliana said, looking him in the eyes, her mouth a grim line. “The scouting unit- it’s Althea’s.”


	11. Burdens of Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making a decision and dealing with the consequences.

Owain’s insides iced over at Leliana’s words, and all his moralizing went out the window. A million questions sprang up in his mind, for which there were no easy answers. What had Althea been thinking? How did they find these rebel mages? Had she been planning this all along? Was there no other way out of this?

And yet, among all those questions, he didn’t doubt that it was true. It was exactly the kind of thing Althea would do. Exactly the kind of risk she would take, fully confident that her skill and wit would carry her through, as they so often did. Just not this time. And with more at stake than even her own life.

He looked at each of his advisors in turn, hoping for answers, for _something_ , for a miracle that didn't call for good people dying. “If we left _right_ now…” he ventured. His voice sounded tighter than normal. 

“You would still never reach them in time,” Leliana finished for him, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor. These truly are the only options.”

Owain sighed and leaned on the war table, palms flat on the polished wood, eyes pointed at the map but not really seeing. Echoes of Crestwood came back to him. Terrible power and responsibility, an impossible choice from any perspective. And he wasn’t just making decisions for hypothetical soldiers in his army. Althea was his oldest friend, the truest family he had in this world. It _shouldn’t_ have made a difference, but it did. 

“Consider, Inquisitor.” Cullen broke into his thoughts, his face earnest, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. “My men are _so_ close to a breakthrough with the Red Templars. We could prevent more innocent people from being infected with that lyrium, more good Templars from being corrupted. You saw how they looked at Haven, how it twists them into monsters. We could save more men and women from that fate.”

Owain turned his head aside and closed his eyes. Familiar images played in his mind- Redcliffe and the hum of red lyrium in a nightmare future, Inquisition soldiers run through with crystals the same color as their blood, Cassandra thrusting her sword into a behemoth’s skull, the twisted figure of Corypheus himself. _Could_ they prevent more of that? Could they save more lives, at the mere cost of a few now? More images- injured rebel mages at the Crossroads, cheering in the Skyhold courtyard, his peers and teachers from the Ostwick Circle, Althea’s knowing smile and the clink of whiskey glasses, and... _shit._ The rest faded away. He wanted to believe Cullen, to see the bigger picture, but it wasn’t that simple. There were just too many unknowns, stacked against the certainty of loss. When he looked up, they were waiting for him, and he made his decision. 

“Divert the soldiers. Send the bird.”

Cullen balled his hands into fists and let them fall on the table. Fury and decorum warred in his expression. “You would choose these--these apostates--over stopping the red Templars? The chance to thwart Corypheus and prevent more corruption?” He exhaled sharply through his nose and shook his head. He gave Owain a hard look and then walked toward the door. 

“I signed on to be the commander of the Inquisition, not the mage rebellion,” he said over his shoulder. Then he stalked out of the room. 

Owain watched him leave and then turned to Leliana. “Send the bird.”

\--

He opened the door to the forge and was halfway up the stairs before he realized Cassandra was already talking to someone. It was Cullen.

“You’ve asked me for my opinion and I’ve given it,” Cassandra said, sounding exasperated. “Why would you expect that to change?” 

“I expect you to keep your word,” Cullen replied, his voice strained. He rubbed his knuckles against his temples before throwing his fingers wide in front of his face. He grimaced. “It’s relentless. If I can’t fulfill the vows I’ve made-”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Cassandra cut in. She crossed her arms, but her eyes were sympathetic. “You’ve built our forces up from nothing, something few others could have done. By all measures, you are doing an excellent job. You just need some rest. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the Inquisition.”

“All the more reason I should be replaced! All the more reason I should-” Cullen stopped short as Owain stepped fully into the room, and his expression darkened. The air in the room seemed to chill. Cullen’s eyes flicked between Owain and Cassandra, and he set his jaw. Without another word, he brushed past Owain and went down the stairs. 

Owain walked to a chair and slouched into it. He stared up at the ceiling and let out a massive sigh. 

“What was _that_?” Cassandra said, turning to him with her eyes narrowed. “Are _all_ the moody, angry men of Skyhold coming to find me today?”

He turned his head slightly and squinted at her, still leaning back in his chair. “Is Cullen angry at me? He seems angry.”

“Does he have reason to be?” 

“Perhaps.” Owain explained the events in the war room. Cassandra listened thoughtfully.

“Was I wrong?” he asked. He was starting to second guess himself. “Should I have listened to Cullen and kept those soldiers on the trail?”

Cassandra shook her head and sat down opposite him. She sighed. “It was a difficult choice, and it's impossible to know what was truly right in that situation. We do not know what the Red Templars will do next or whether keeping those soldiers on their mission would have saved lives. We _do_ know that denying the call for reinforcements would have meant death for our scouts and those mages.”

Owain said nothing, staring at the ceiling again. “I keep thinking about Dedrick, sending innocent people to their deaths, sacrificing them for some perceived greater good. Am I no better? What right do I have to make that kind of call?” 

“You are the leader of the Inquisition,” she said, somehow managing to sound both matter-of-fact and gentle at once. “It is your right--and responsibility--to make that kind of decision for the people who follow you. Even to do nothing is a kind of choice.” She paused before continuing. “In any case, this is different than Crestwood. You did not engineer the murder of innocent people. And no one will blame you for refusing to abandon your friend to certain death.”

“Cullen seems to,” Owain replied, and then he named what was really bothering him. “He says I’ve turned the Inquisition into the mage rebellion by another name.” Owain leaned forward and looked down at his hands. “And the more I think about it, the more I think he may have a point. The free mages are our biggest allies so far, especially after our losses at Haven. We're fighting against Templars, corrupted though they may be. Vivienne, Dorian, and Solas have very visible roles in the Inquisition. And, well, there's _me_ , obviously. I wonder how many others look at us and see the same thing.” He looked up at Cassandra, unsure what he wanted most from her right now. Assurance? Validation? Sympathy?

She gave him truth. And she spoke firmly. “Even if he is no longer a Templar himself, Cullen still feels a strong affinity for his former order. It is not surprising that he would look at the plight of his Templar brothers and want to save them from the red lyrium, just as you might naturally feel stronger about bringing the rebel mages under the Inquisition’s banner. You each have your prejudices in this matter, whether you realize it or not.”

Her words rang in the silence that followed, and they struck him deep and true, like a crossbow bolt to the heart. It was sobering to hear her say such things out loud, but he searched himself and knew she was right. It _was_ too easy for him to value mage lives over Templars, to count the concerns of his fellows as more important. It wasn't the only thing behind his decision today, nor was it a thing he would acknowledge in his rational thoughts, but it was there, lurking below the surface. Maybe likewise for Cullen.

“It’s not fair,” he said, after a long moment.

“No, it’s not. But it is human.” 

She went on. “As for the Inquisition, we are much more than just mages, even if you are our leader. We are still growing, and people are joining us because they agree with our common cause, not because we are all alike. Our strength comes from being able to unite in spite of our differences.”

Owain slumped in his chair and stared at his hands again, convicted of his own biases. The mark winked at him, mockingly. The Inquisitor was supposed to be more than this. Better than this. Leading mages was easy. He understood mages. But could he really be a leader to Templars in the Inquisition, too? To the rank-and-file soldiers fighting in his army? To an old woman in Ferelden who didn’t even know about the Breach? Since when did this matter to him, anyway? Maybe it was all too much. Or maybe he just needed to start somewhere. 

“Did Cullen mention any of this with you?” 

“No, though I don’t doubt it was fresh in his mind,” Cassandra replied. She paused and looked at him. “Has Cullen told you he is no longer taking lyrium?”

“No,” Owain said, his eyes blinking wide with surprise. “But… that explains much.” In his mind, he rapidly reordered all his interactions with Cullen over the last few months, and they made much more sense now. The bloodshot eyes, the lack of sleep, the headaches. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Perhaps he didn’t want you to worry. Or perhaps, as a mage, he didn’t think you would understand. Or care.”

“And why you?”

Cassandra stood and walked over to the window, leaning against the frame and looking out into the courtyard. Afternoon sun streamed through the glass and lit her face as she spoke. “We had an agreement long before you even joined the Inquisition. As a Seeker, I could watch over him and evaluate his condition. If he ever became unfit for duty, I was to recommend a replacement for him. That is what he asked me to do just now.”

“Has the withdrawal gotten worse?” Owain asked, swiveling in his chair to look at her. He tried to recall anything he knew about lyrium addiction from his time in the Circle. “It can be fatal, can't it?”

“Yes,” she sighed, meeting his gaze. “You mages have made your suffering known, but Templars never have. They give their lives in service to the Chantry, mind and body, with someone always holding their lyrium leash. There is a reason why not many leave the order after taking their vows. Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to others--and himself--that it is possible. He has come so far. To go back now would destroy him.”

Owain frowned and berated himself for not seeing it sooner. For not even considering its possibility and being so blind to the struggles of Templars, of his own commander. “Go back? You mean he’s thinking of taking it again?”

Cassandra nodded. “He thinks it will help him do his duty, to give more to the Inquisition. I’ve told him it’s not necessary, but...” She looked pointedly at him.

Owain caught her meaning but raised his brows skeptically at her. “You want _me_ to talk to him. You really think that will help? Am I not just the embodiment of everything he fears? About mages, about the Inquisition?”

“Cullen has more reason than most to fear mages, to hate them, even. And yet, he has come a long way. You are part of that, and he respects you, perhaps in spite of what you are. I think it would help if you talked to him.”

Owain blew out a breath and nodded. The faith he saw in her eyes was both an encouragement and a burden. He could only hope to live up to it. He ran a hand through his hair and rose to go. 

“Thank you, Cassandra, for the wisdom,” he said, tilting his head and looking at her warmly. 

She smiled slightly and snorted. “You seem surprised. I am more than just a sword and shield, you know.”

“Indeed,” he replied quietly, indulging himself and letting his eyes linger a moment longer.

Then he smirked playfully and gestured toward the stairs. “So, shall I tell Dorian to come up next? He seemed to be in a mood, last I saw him.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “The Inquisitor was _hilarious-_ that's what they'll write someday. You'll see.”

\--

The sun was just coming over the mountains as Owain walked the parapet connecting the main keep to Cullen’s office on the outer walls, casting grey shadows across the weathered stones. Skyhold was still quiet at this hour. Bull and Blackwall were sparring in the yard below, and the occasional clash of their weapons was the only sound that floated up to his ears. 

He filled his lungs with cold, clean air, and marveled at the difference the morning made. A hot meal, a bath to wash away the last fortnight of travel, and a night in his own bed (even if sleep still mostly eluded him), and he was ready to follow Cassandra’s advice and make peace with his own commander. 

His conversation with the Seeker had been humbling but necessary. He was forced to rethink what it meant for him to be the Inquisitor, and not merely a Senior Enchanter, or even just Owain Trevelyan. Would he have made a different decision yesterday? Probably not. But he might, tomorrow, or the next day. It wasn’t just about closing rifts and rescuing lost druffalo after all.

He pulled his hands from his coat pockets and knocked twice on Cullen’s door. It was answered with a sharp, growling, “WHAT.” Owain let himself in. 

Cullen was sitting at his desk, his elbows resting on its wooden surface and his fingers twisted in his own hair, which was messy, like he had been pulling on it. In front of him was a rectangular wooden box filled with glowing blue vials and assorted small implements. A Templar’s lyrium kit, Owain recognized. Cullen’s eyes looked wild, bloodshot, and altogether shocked to see Owain in his office. He looked, in short, a mess. 

Cullen stood quickly, his chair scraping loudly on the floor behind him. “Inquisitor! I’m sorry! I- I didn’t expect you this morning. I-” He looked down at the kit and up at Owain, and stammered into silence, at a loss for words. He slumped his shoulders and leaned forward on his desk. 

Owain said nothing but closed the door softly behind him. He sat down in the chair across from Cullen and nodded at the lyrium. “Cassandra told me. How long has it been?” 

“Months. I stopped when I left the Templars and joined the Inquisition.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Cullen looked up at him. “Would it have made a difference?”

Owain narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. Would it have?”

Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, turning away to stare out the window behind his desk. “You don’t know what it was like. Ferelden’s Circle was taken over by abominations. I had to watch them slaughter the other Templars- my friends. They tortured me, tried to break my mind, used magic to read my deepest secrets and use them against me. How can you be the same person after that? ...but still, I wanted to serve, so they sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my knight-commander, but her fear of mages drove her to madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell, and blood flowed in the streets.” He turned back to Owain with fire in his eyes. “Can’t you see why I want no part of that life anymore?”

“Of course,” Owain said, frowning. “I’m not here to convince you otherwise. On the contrary, I rather respect what you’re doing. It’s a kind of… freedom, really. From dependence, from the Chantry’s control. In a way, it’s not unlike what we mages have sought through rebellion.”

Cullen didn’t seem to hear him. “I should be taking it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I should be taking it!” He screwed his eyes up in frustration and punched the bookcase beside his desk. He breathed heavily and rubbed his eyes before opening them to look at Owain. “I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry!”

His behavior was verging on alarming. Owain rose and took a step toward Cullen with his hand out. “Cullen! Give what you will, but we would never _take_ from you! I would have you serve out of loyalty, not blind obedience.” Owain’s eyes met the commander’s and then looked away. “And I’m sorry,” he added, “If I’ve failed to fully earn that loyalty.” 

“Ah,” Cullen said, and some of the tension fell from his shoulders. “You’re referring to what I said yesterday. For that, I am sorry. That was beneath me. I didn’t realize the... extent of your relationship with Scout Althea, and it was unfair of me to ask you to make that kind of choice and expect it to end otherwise.”

“No, it was honest,” Owain replied. “And you opened my eyes to things I have failed to see until now. I know you have reason to hate mages for the pain they have caused you, and I can’t blame you for that. But _I_ am not those mages. What we- what the rebel mages want is not Kinloch or Kirkwall.”

“I’m not blind, you know,” Cullen sighed. “I know there have been excesses by the Templars. And as I said, I’m not proud of the man I was in Kirkwall.”

“Perhaps the Inquisition is a chance to change that, to build something new,” Owain suggested.

Cullen nodded. “Yes, perhaps so...” He paused and grunted in pain, blinking hard and leaning on the desk for support. 

“Are you alright?” Owain asked, reaching forward again. He watched Cullen with concern as the wave passed over him. “Isn’t there a chance this could kill you?”

Cullen brushed him off and spoke as if he was talking to himself as much as he was to Owain. “It hasn’t yet. I can endure it. I _chose_ this.” He wiped his hand across his brow and seemed to decide something. He flipped the lid closed on his lyrium kit and pushed it across the desk toward Owain, who raised his eyebrows in question. 

“Please, Inquisitor. Take it. Use it, throw it over the walls, burn it- I don't care. I just need it out of my sight.”

Owain looked at the resolve on Cullen’s face and nodded slowly. He picked up the box and took his leave, closing the door on his commander sitting at the desk again, his head in his hands. 

\--

Althea downed her first drink and slid the glass toward Owain for a second, which he poured without a word. They were sitting at the desk in his quarters. It was dim. A fire crackled on the hearth, fighting the evening chill that flowed in through the open windows. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said, watching firelight catch the golden liquid swirling in her glass as she cradled it in her hands. She was dressed in a new uniform, and her hair was clean and freshly plaited, but a few cuts and scrapes on her brow and a weariness about her eyes belied the struggle of the past several days. “Lieutenant Kestral told me about their mission to hunt Red Templars. You shouldn’t have pulled them from the trail.”

“Believe me, I know,” Owain replied, sipping his whiskey. 

“They could have found those Templars, cut off their supplies. Stopped them from-”

“Maker’s breath,” he interrupted. “Are you _really_ going to be upset with me for saving your life?”

Althea sighed. “No, I guess not.”

“Good. Shut up and drink.” 

She scoffed and rolled her eyes at him, but said nothing. They sat in silence. She stared out the window. He sipped his drink and watched her. All his questions bubbled to the fore again, and he picked the one that nagged at him the most. 

“Did you know about that rebel cell when you went out there?” Owain asked, looking her in the eyes. “Tell me you weren’t planning that all along.”

She opened her mouth as if to speak and then closed it, pressing her lips together in a fine line. “I can’t tell you that,” she admitted.

“Fucking _hell,_ Thea.” He stood and walked over to the fireplace. He leaned an arm against the mantle and looked down into the flames. “Why am I not surprised,” he muttered.

She turned to look at him, her eyes chastened but still shining with a hint of her usual defiance. “They wrote to Fiona while you were still in Crestwood, asking for assistance, and I happened to be headed toward the Graves. I didn’t think it would be an issue!”

Owain shook his head, frustrated. He glared at her. “Don’t you get what I’m trying to do here? Do you have any idea how this looks? The mages are allies of the Inquisition, but we’re not here to fight the rebellion for you. I can’t afford to just think about myself anymore. I can’t just think about mages, even. It’s bigger than that.”

Althea studied him quietly for a long moment and then got up and joined him by the fire. She came behind him and put her arms around his waist, resting her chin against his back. “Maker,” she murmured. “They really did get you with this Inquisition stuff, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Owain sighed out his anger. “Any other hidden agendas I should know about?”

“No. I promise.”

“Good.” He shrugged off her embrace and reached into his coat. He pulled out a small bundle of notes and handed it to her. 

“What’s this?” Althea asked, her brows furrowed. 

“Redemption,” he said, nodding at the pages in her hands. “Or a chance at it. Those are the last reports on the whereabouts of the Red Templars. I want you to find them. Put a team together. You’ll report to Commander Cullen.”

She looked from him to the papers and back, and her blue eyes glittered at him as she spoke. “Consider it done.”


	12. Game Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Palace.

Owain struggled to keep his balance as he perched on a stool in Josephine’s parlor, which had been transformed into something of a workshop of late, filled with bolts of fabric, dress forms, and boxes of ribbons, buttons, trim, and any number of things he couldn’t begin to name. A large mirror leaned against the wall before him, and his own impatience stared out at him while a small Orlesian man darted around, measuring, pinning, and muttering to himself. 

A faint memory of childhood surfaced in his mind- himself as a boy, standing in front of a mirror like this one, his mother telling him to keep still, soothing and remarking on his latest growth spurt as she pinned and marked the clothes on his back. He had hated it then, and he hated this now. 

He was being fitted for a new formal outfit for their upcoming visit to the Orlesian imperial court at Halamshiral. He and his party had spent a week in the Dales quelling demons and undead, earning the appreciation of Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, whose troops were stationed there during the ongoing civil war. His invitation to the Winter Palace had arrived at Skyhold almost as they did, and it had set Josephine into a frenzy of activity. All the preparations and strategy going into this endeavor were not unlike what they would have done before a major military battle. Josie could be as much a commander as Cullen, except on her field, armor consisted of silk frocks and gilded masks, and the weapons were secrets and scandal. 

“...de Montfort, Duke Germain de Chalons, and Duke Bastien de Ghislain,” Josie was saying when he tuned in again. “The seven members of the Council of Heralds are all highly influential, and it would be wise for us to court their approval of the Inquisition. I suggest you meet and speak with each of them at the Winter Palace, Inquisitor.”

“Though only six of them will be in attendance,” Vivienne added over the rim of her teacup. She sat in a chair by the fire, presiding over the scene. “One of them is currently… indisposed.”

“Bastien is still not well enough to travel?” Josephine asked. 

“No,” Vivienne replied.

“I am sorry to hear that.” Josie scribbled a note on her parchment.

“As am I, my dear.”

The tailor draped a length of bright red fabric over Owain’s shoulder. It was a thick, heavy wool, and so, so red. Exceedingly red.

“No, no, monsieur. Not the red for the Inquisitor,” Vivienne instructed. Owain breathed an internal sigh of relief. “Try the dark blue. Yes, that’s much better. Do ensure the fit is close around the shoulders and waist. That should help sway a few of the more _susceptible_ members of the court.” 

He scowled at being so objectified. Any gratitude he felt about the color morphed into disgust, and he addressed it with his fellow mage. “Is _everything_ a tool to be used in this Game?” 

Vivienne set her cup down on its saucer and looked at him patiently, like he really was a child to which one needed to explain things very slowly and simply. “It would be foolish to think otherwise, my dear.” She picked up her cup again and took another sip. “Besides, as a mage, the court is already predisposed to dislike you, though my presence will certainly help in that regard. You will need all the weapons you have at your disposal.”

The pragmatist in him sensed she was right, but Owain glowered at her through the mirror anyway. If Vivienne noticed--and he was sure she did--it didn’t register at all in her expression. 

Josephine cleared her throat. Ever the diplomat, even at home in Skyhold. “So, that covers the major players who will be there. I will have a copy of my notes sent to your quarters for further study. Leliana will cover all of our current intelligence on the assassination plot tomorrow in the war room.” She checked the list on the writing board that was her constant companion. “That just leaves… dancing. You do know how to dance, do you not, Inquisitor?”

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that a ball would involve dancing? Childhood memories, indeed. This whole operation was a minefield of them. 

“Well, I can’t say there were many balls at the Circle,” he replied. “I did have lessons at one point. But that was a very long time ago.” When a politically advantageous marriage was yet a possibility. When he was the second son of Bann Trevelyan and his value lay in raising the status of his father’s house, he thought with familiar bitterness. Still, he had to admit he hadn’t hated those lessons. And it seemed they were about to pay off after all. 

Josephine looked thoughtful. “Hmn. To be sure, I believe we should have a demonstration.” She set her quill and papers on the desk and pulled a delicate-looking music box from one of the drawers. She wound its key, and it began to play a sweet, tinkling melody. 

Demonstration? He stepped off the stool and glanced tentatively at the two women in the room. Vivienne dismissed him immediately with an icy look and turned to speak softly to the tailor, who seemed to have finished with his measurements. Miffed by this rejection of an offer he hadn't even made, he turned back to Josie and extended his hand awkwardly. She took it with perfect grace and composure that contrasted sharply with his own lack of both.

It really had been a long time. He struggled to recall the posture, how to lead, and where to put his hands and feet, but a minute or two later his muscles fell into a groove of remembered movement, and he smiled with satisfaction as they turned in the small space. Dancing had always been romantic to him. Even his adolescent self had viewed it as mostly an excuse to have a pretty girl in his arms. Perhaps it was the physical closeness, or the matching, mirrored steps, or the give-and-take tension of leading and following. Whatever it was, it felt good. 

The music box played itself out, and they spun to a halt beside Josephine’s desk. He looked at her and smiled, stepping back and dropping into a formal bow. Her eyes shone at him as she curtseyed and smoothed her hands down the silk ruffles of her skirt. “Well. That will do,” she said, slightly breathless. 

“Very Marcher,” Vivienne commented from across the room. “No one will mistake you for Orlesian, my dear, but perhaps that is not such a bad thing.”

Owain turned his head to throw a snarky look in her direction, but he stopped suddenly when he noticed the open door and Cassandra standing in it. She stood frozen in that moment, one hand still on the door handle, her eyes wide and mouth slightly open as she stared at him and Josephine. He probably looked just as stunned. He mastered himself and looked away, snapping his mouth shut and taking another step back, running a hand nervously through his hair.

Josephine cut neatly through the silence. “Cassandra! I’m so glad you finally came. If you will just step up here, Monsieur Reynaud will take care of you.” She smiled and gestured toward the mirror and the pedestal Owain had recently vacated. Then she addressed him. “Inquisitor, I believe that is all for today.”

Owain nodded and walked back toward the mirror, stopping to scoop up his coat where it lay on the floor behind the stool. Cassandra was already standing on it. He locked eyes with her reflection as he straightened, holding his rumpled coat in both hands. There was a question held there, and that hint of doubt again, as she looked at him, her hands pausing as they worked the buckles of her breastplate. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he couldn’t think what. 

Vivienne cleared her throat and arched a brow at him, and he remembered where he was. 

“Right. Yes. Leaving.” He threw the coat over his shoulder and wrenched the door open. 

From the edge of his vision, he could see Vivienne turning to the Seeker. “Cassandra, dear, are you certain we can’t talk you into a dress for the Winter Palace?”

He thought he heard a disgusted sound as the door shut behind him.

\--

Owain watched the towers of the Winter Palace come into view as his carriage pulled up to the gates at Halamshiral. They were nearly there. He rolled his shoulders and pulled at the collar of his new coat. The wool was a little scratchy, but it did fit well, and the cut was a flattering choice, he grudgingly allowed. Curse Vivienne and her ruthless competency. 

Josephine sat across from him, arrayed in a voluminous ballgown of blue and gold silk. Like him and the rest of their party, her outfit included a sash and a badge adorned with the symbol of the Inquisition. She stared out the window with a slight crease in her brow. He could almost see her mind running through a checklist of reminders and plans, all in the name of being overly prepared. He was less worried- he had full confidence in her abilities as their ambassador. 

“Remember, Inquisitor,” she turned to him as the carriage slowed to a stop. “How you speak to the court is a matter of life and death. It is not simply a matter of etiquette and adhering to protocol. Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness. The eyes of the empire will be on you at all times.”

Owain sighed, having heard this speech several times already. “I know, I know. I’ve prepared myself for a very tiresome evening.”

She pressed on. “The political situation here is tenuous at best. The Empress fears that our presence will upset the balance, and Gaspard is only too happy to have us attend at his invitation. Any disruption we cause creates an opportunity for him, and potentially an advantage.”

Owain paused and put a hand on hers to reassure her as he moved to exit the carriage. “It’ll be fine, Josie. Really.” He heard her sigh and breathe out a prayer to Andraste as they emerged onto the castle grounds. 

They were greeted at the gate by Grand Duke Gaspard himself and exchanged bows. Like all Orlesian nobles, Gaspard covered his face with a mask, but his dress armor and military bearing distinguished him as a chevalier as well. 

“Welcome to Halamshiral, Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Gaspard began. “It is an honor to finally meet you. Tales of your victories have captivated many of us in Orlais in recent days. Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the support of the rightful Emperor.”

“The honor is mine, I assure you,” Owain replied. “And you believe yourself to be that rightful Emperor?”

“Of course,” Gaspard replied, smiling and looking Owain in the eyes. “I am not a man who forgets his friends, Lord Trevelyan. You help me, and I will help you.” 

“That’s quite an offer. I’ll keep it in mind, your grace.”

Gaspard continued in a confidential tone as they made their way through the gardens toward the palace itself. “If I may speak frankly, I suggest you be wary of the elven ambassador, Briala. My people have found her agents all over the palace, and I suspect she will attempt to disrupt the negotiations. She was once a servant of Celene’s, until my cousin had her arrested to cover up a political mistake. If anyone here wishes Celene harm, it would be her.” 

Owain nodded, making a mental note to discuss with Leliana. They entered the castle and climbed a set of stairs leading to a pair of ornate doors that would open onto the ballroom. Here, Gaspard paused and took a deep breath, releasing it as a quiet sigh of resignation. “Be discreet, Inquisitor. I detest the Game, but if we do not play it well, our enemies will make us look like villains.”

Owain nodded again in agreement, surprised that an Orlesian, of all people, would express exactly how he himself felt about the night ahead. 

They entered the ballroom, and Owain and the other members of the Inquisition were introduced. He met the Empress, Gaspard’s sister Florianne, Ambassador Briala, and the other major players in the room without making a fool of himself, and then he found himself at a bit of leisure. 

He searched the room for his companions. The sheer size and scale of the palace was enormous, far beyond Vivienne’s chateau in Val Royeaux, not to mention anything he had ever seen in Ostwick. He spotted Cullen along the wall near the front of the room, surrounded by fawning nobles and looking utterly miserable. Unlike Owain, he had not escaped the bright red coat. Josephine was on the opposite side of the room, deep in conversation with a young woman who shared her dark hair and warm, brown eyes. A relative, perhaps? Vivienne held court in a corner by the entrance, clearly in her element, dressed in her horned crown and a flowing gown in brilliant white. The height of fashion, no doubt. Like all of them, however, she went unmasked. The better to set them apart from the Orlesians.

His eyes came to rest on Leliana standing near a window just a few yards away, and he moved to join her. 

“Look at Lady Cambienne’s shoes!” she said, clearly talking to him but staring at a woman across the room. Owain followed her line of sight.

“They look alright to me?” he shrugged.

Leliana shook her head and smiled, turning to look at him. “They're too much! Trimmed with pearls _and_ emeralds? And those buckles? Ridiculous.”

“I suppose?” He still wasn't sure he saw the problem. “You know, for someone so concerned about shoes, I'm surprised you opted for the standard red uniform.”

“I am here to observe tonight, Inquisitor, to see rather than be seen,” she replied shrewdly. “You can learn much about someone by the clothes they wear. Lady Cambienne, for example. Gold and jewels on a dancing slipper, something so easily soiled or lost- it is a vulgar display of wealth. But her family has recently lost most of their holdings. They have their titles but little else. So where did she acquire such a slipper? What has she done? Who has she bedded? These are all useful questions, no?”

“You're right as always, Leliana,” he conceded with a smile. “This is why I'm glad we're on the same side. So what do my clothes say about me, other than that I have a very aggressive former court enchanter dictating my outfits?”

She looked him over with a thoughtful eye. “Vivienne is an accomplished player of the Game. She chose that clothing for a reason, that you may show as the hero they have heard in the stories, powerful but not too threatening. A mage but of noble birth, foreign yet familiar, fashionable enough to show you can play their Game but not so much that you will upend it.” She nodded at him approvingly. “It is a delicate balance, and you wear it well.” 

He snorted and looked away but could think of nothing to say to that. They watched a handful of couples twirl on the dance floor. “You seem different here, Leliana. More approachable, perhaps.”

“This is Halamshiral, the Imperial Court, the beating heart of the Grand Game,” she said, almost reverent. “It is all a dance, Inquisitor, and some of us have been playing the Game for so long that we could perform the steps in our sleep. But like all dances, it can be learned.” She smiled at him again, not unkindly. It was all a bit unnerving from his normally severe spymaster.

Owain took his leave of Leliana and wandered outside. He found Dorian in one of the gardens, wearing opulent robes of white and scarlet and an air of wry satisfaction. 

He spotted Owain, and his face lit up. “You must try this spicy punch, Inquisitor! It's delicious!”

“Does this remind you of home, Dorian?” Owain smirked in response.

“Oh, yes,” he replied archly, gesturing with the half-empty glass in his hand. “All we need is a few sacrificial slaves and a good blood magic duel, and I could almost imagine myself back in Minrathous. The double-dealing, the elegant poisons, canapés- it's all the same.”

“Be careful. I'm sure not everyone here looks kindly on Tevinters in their midst, even if you are with the Inquisition.”

“That's true. You should see the way some of them wrinkle their noses at me. You'd think I smelled like cabbages. No matter. I'm rather used to being a pariah at this point. A devastatingly well-dressed pariah.”

“Indeed,” Owain smirked again. “Well, don't drink too much, Dorian. I’d hate to be down a mage when we locate the assassins.”

“You ask _so_ much of me, Trevelyan,” Dorian sighed, clutching at his heart like a martyr. “But anything for the Inquisition.”

Owain moved on, searching the rooms and gardens for the one person he really wanted to see. He found her, finally, on one of the balconies off the main ballroom. Cassandra was listening to a middle-aged noble talk animatedly about something, completely oblivious to the growing impatience in her expression. 

He picked up two glasses of Dorian’s punch from a passing servant and walked out onto the balcony to wait. He felt Cassandra’s eyes follow him, and he quirked an eyebrow at her in passing. He set the punch down on the balustrade and spread his palms on the cool stone, looking out onto the empty garden below. The golden glow of the candlelit ballroom faded into blue moonlight here, and the relative quiet was a blessing all its own.

It was quiet enough to hear the tap of approaching footsteps, though he didn’t turn toward them until Cassandra was at his side. “I thought he would never leave,” she said with a groan and a roll of her eyes. 

“Is he an admirer?” Owain quipped. He handed her one of the glasses, which she accepted with gratitude. “Shall I have him killed?”

“The only thing he seems to admire is soup,” she replied. 

Owain laughed and let the invisible mask he’d been wearing all night slip from his face as he looked at her. “Well, then he must be blind,” he said, softly. Cassandra’s brows shifted upwards with surprise, and the ghost of a slow smile curled at her lips. He cleared his throat and looked away, nervous, suddenly. “I see they couldn’t talk you into a dress for this evening after all.”

She made a disgusted sound. “I am a warrior, Inquisitor. I am here to protect you from enemies that would hurt you, not to swoon and flirt. If this uniform is good enough for Commander Cullen, it is good enough for me.”

He turned back to her. “I think the color is rather lovely on you, Cassandra.” And it was. That vivid red, so garish on the bolt, seemed radiant on her. Perhaps, too, it was the first time he had seen her in anything but armor, and it was... nice. She seemed more vulnerable somehow, softer, the wide sash at her waist accentuating the swell of her breasts and flare of her hips in a way he found utterly distracting. Or maybe it was just the answering warmth in her gaze as she looked back at him. 

She flicked her eyes forward and took a sip of her drink. “You... look rather dashing as well, Owain.” He thought he glimpsed a bit of pink coloring the tips of her ears. Was this shyness? From _Cassandra?_ The idea that she might be as nervous as he was gave him a small burst of confidence.

“Why, thank you,” he grinned, taking a step back to stand straighter and look down at himself. “I can take absolutely no credit for it.” He returned to the railing and leaned closer, so that their shoulders were nearly brushing. She didn’t seem to mind. He could feel the heat of her body warming the air around them, and a whiff of her scent, which reminded him of a clean, simple soap. Part of him wanted that moment to last forever. The rest of him didn’t, but only because it wanted that heat against his own skin, and that scent filling his lungs. 

“What do you think of the ball so far?” he asked, questing for another topic. “I seem to recall you love parties.”

Cassandra snorted. “It is a waste of time, like all Orlesian foolishness. They like to pretend their petty squabbles are a ‘game.’ Oh yes, let us treat murder, corruption, and deceit as amusements. How delightful!”

“It is a bit perverse, isn’t it?” he replied. “But it seems we’re forced to play it, for tonight at least.”

“We are here to save Empress Celene, and it galls me. Why does she merit our protection? The empire would be better off without her. Gaspard is the leader Orlais needs in this crisis.”

“We’re acting on the visions Dorian and I saw at Redcliffe, remember? Her death helps Corypheus conquer Southern Thedas.” He furrowed his brows at her, serious now. “You would support Gaspard in overthrowing the Empress?” 

“Of course not,” she went on, dismissively, her expression hardened. “Chaos is what Corypheus wants, and we must oppose him. Were it up to me, however, I would let Celene fall and let Gaspard take the throne. He is a man of action and would recognize the true threat, not spend his time throwing balls and writing letters.” She spat these last words with disdain.

Owain sighed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have brought up politics. As if he needed more reminders of the real reason they were here. Couldn’t they go back to being two friends chatting on a balcony?

“I don’t suppose you would like to dance, Cassandra?”

The question caught her off guard. “Dance? Now?” She looked at him with genuine confusion, and then her instinct for duty took over, and it was Seeker Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine, that answered. “This is… hardly the time,” she sputtered. “We are here to find an assassin. We should do that and get out of here as soon as possible.”

He shouldn’t have brought up politics. 

\--

Politics proved inescapable, anyway, for the rest of the evening, and by the end of it, he had had enough to last him a lifetime. Owain found himself standing again on that balcony, alone, taking stock of the new world order he had wrought in the space of a few hours. 

They had roamed all over the Winter Palace and its grounds in their efforts to uncover the conspiracy against Celene, but each new piece of information seemed only to add another layer of plot and counterplot. It was impossible to follow all the threads, to know which leads were most trustworthy, to assign blame or exonerate. Celene, Gaspard, Briala… Everyone seemed to be scheming against everyone else, and he still wasn’t sure, even now, who was truly right or wrong. Most frustrating of all, it didn’t seem to matter. 

In the end, it was Grand Duchess Florianne who was working for Corypheus, using her skill with the Game to play her own brother and cousin against each other and sow chaos. Who knows what that ancient Tevinter had promised her to win her complicity, but in a way it was no different than the more mundane bribes and favors that were the currency of everyday Orlais. 

It was Florianne who had pulled a dagger and plunged it into Celene’s heart in front of the entire imperial court. Owain had watched from the sidelines, had let it happen before his forces swooped in to keep the peace. He had _let a woman die_ in the service of politics. They had known by then. They could have stopped it, but they didn’t. On one hand, Orlais had done this to itself- why should they intervene? But the Inquisition had a stake in this Game, too, and Gaspard’s words echoed in his mind: “You help me, and I will help you.” To make doubly sure, he had supplied Briala with the means to control Gaspard from behind the scenes, to remind the new Emperor about honoring his obligations. 

Only time would tell if he had made the right choices. The dizzying weight of his decisions settled on him now and made him sick to his stomach. First life or death, now the fate of empires. It was _fucking terrifying._ Worse, he felt utterly alone in it all.

Their investigations had kept him in and out of the ballroom all night, with little opportunity to speak with Cassandra again. He had tried, once, catching her eye from across the room as he returned from rummaging the library for further evidence. But he had barely taken three steps before a voice had called to him and forced him to stop and turn. It was Florianne, demanding a dance. Not knowing what he knew now, he obliged. Their words had maneuvered around each other as deftly as their feet, and the court had approved of his performance, but beneath his calm, diplomatic mask seethed resentment of another quiet moment with the Seeker, denied. When he stepped off the dance floor, Cassandra was nowhere to be found. 

That dance with Florianne had foreshadowed a much deadlier encounter later that evening, as the Grand Duchess tried to evade capture while Celene still lay bleeding on the polished floor. He and his party had chased her out into the gardens, where her speed and poison-tipped arrows had given them considerably more trouble than expected for a coddled noblewoman. Cassandra’s shield saved his life more than once tonight, as the combined might of three powerful mages finally brought Florianne down. It was done, Corypheus had been thwarted, and the throne of Orlais settled. 

He was exhausted and battered, his clothes torn and stained with blood and ichor from the battles of the evening, but he heard footsteps on the flagstones behind him, and for a fleeting moment his heart leapt with joy that it might be Cassandra coming to join him in the moonlight once again. But a second later, he realized there was no way this soft shuffle could come from the Seeker’s heavy boots. It was Josephine, and he tried but failed to hide his profound disappointment at that. He had no more energy for masks tonight.

“Are you alright?” she asked, looking at his face with concern as she handed him a glass of wine that was a small consolation in his current state. 

“I will be,” he said grimly as he drained half of the drink. He blinked hard and tried to speak more casually. “Where are the others?” 

“Vivienne and Dorian are still inside,” she said, mentally ticking off a list of Inquisition members. “Leliana is meeting with Ambassador Briala, and Cassandra and Cullen left to secure the prisoners for transport to Skyhold.” 

“I see,” he said simply. Duty had called for the Lady Seeker yet again. 

Josephine continued on. “You’ve done well, Inquisitor. The throne of Orlais is secure, and it is in our debt. Perhaps just as importantly, the Inquisition has shown itself to be a true power. People will not soon forget what we have accomplished tonight. Not bad for your first Orlesian ball.” 

Owain squinted at her and took another substantial gulp of wine. Then he shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know how you do it, Josie. The politics, the conspiracies, the lies… It’s enough to drive one mad.”

She giggled. “It is a skill, Inquisitor, honed over many years of practice. One cannot expect to learn all of its intricacies in an evening.” She looked out over the treetops, now swaying in a slight breeze. “Besides, there is a certain satisfaction in a well-played Game. I know this is not the kind of battlefield you are used to, but this is how I fight for the Inquisition.”

“And I’ll forever be glad that you do, if only so I don’t have to.” He finished his wine and set the glass down on the railing and was struck by a sudden whim. 

He stepped back and bowed. “Would you care for a dance, Lady Montilyet?” Even with Cassandra gone, he couldn’t let his only partner at the Winter Palace be a backstabbing, demon-allied murderess. 

She smiled and dropped into an elegant curtsey. “I thought you would never ask, Lord Trevelyan.”

He offered her his left hand and placed the right on her waist, and he smiled down at her as they swayed to the music that filtered out from the ballroom windows. It was lovely, and they moved well together, and it did much to erase the memory of his only other turn on the dance floor that evening. It did nothing, however, for the deep-rooted wish of his heart, that he might have held an entirely different pretty girl in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I would totally play an entire game like Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts, except with 100% more politics and 200% less coin and statue collecting. 
> 
> This was inspired by my actual playthrough, in which I failed to lock in Cassandra's romance before going to the Winter Palace. She refused to dance with Owain, and I refused to redo a three hour quest. :'D


	13. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra tries to define their relationship.

Cassandra found Owain in the training yard. He could hear her boots crunching the gravel as she approached and knew it was her. He was practicing again, making his targets collide into one another with a satisfying thump. His rift magic had improved enough that he was no longer a danger to the ongoing construction works. 

“Can we talk?” she asked. 

“Technically, we already are,” he smirked without breaking his concentration on the spell he was casting. 

“I meant privately,” she added, in a quiet voice that was so unlike the brash Seeker that he stopped what he was doing and turned toward her. He saw the nervous look on her face and dropped the glibness like a hot coal. 

“Is everything alright?” he asked, furrowing his brow as he rolled down the sleeves of his tunic and threw his coat on over it. He followed her as she lead them up the stairs to walk along the battlements. She paused in a quiet corner, where they stood overlooking the snow-covered mountains glittering in the mid-morning sun. He leaned his elbows on the stone and waited for her to start.

She chewed her bottom lip and threw a sideways glance at him before speaking. “Althea. What is she to you?”

His eyebrows shot skyward, and he turned his head to look at Cassandra’s profile as she studied her own gloved hand resting on the wall in front of her. _Maker._ He wasn’t sure what he’d expected this to be about, but it _certainly_ wasn’t Althea. 

“She’s my friend?” he replied, tentatively, wondering why he was being asked to explain their relationship months after she had already joined the Inquisition. “Since my family cut me off, no one has known me for as long as she has. She used to be the only person I could trust. At least, until I joined the Inquisition.” He squinted at Cassandra. “Why do you ask? What is this about?”

She twisted her hands together. In all the battles and challenges they had faced, he had never seen her so flustered, and it was disconcerting. 

“It’s… the flirting,” she said, her voice tighter and higher than usual. “With me. I’ve... noticed it. Unless, it’s all just my imagination. And you… and her… Which is entirely possible. And… fine...” She was choking on the words, like she was having to force them out by sheer will, one by one. 

Oh. _Oh._ His eyes went wide, and he tangled a hand in his hair, looking down at his feet. Did this mean she was jealous? His heart fluttered at that possibility, and then sank as he considered the other implications of her words. Had he offended her? Sent mixed messages? Probably. He preemptively cursed his own thoughtlessness. 

“Um. We're… It's nothing like that. Hasn't been for a long time. And _no,_ it’s not your imagination.” 

He looked up at her when she didn’t respond immediately. Her brows were furrowed and her lips set in a tight line that touched off a blaze of panic in his veins. 

“I- I’m sorry,” he added, hastily. “If I’ve made you uncomfortable, I can stop.” 

She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. “No. It’s just… you can’t. You cannot court me.” 

“Court you?” he repeated, his brows raised again. His fingers ceased their tugging at his scalp. That sounded awfully formal. Is that what he was doing? Is that what he _should_ have been doing? “But why can’t I court you? Is that what you want?” 

Cassandra made a disgusted sound, the biggest he had yet heard from her. “No!” she said emphatically before throwing her arms in the air and stalking away toward Cullen’s tower.

Owain was utterly dumbfounded. What just happened? Should he go after her? He stood there in indecision, a riot of half-formed thoughts swirling in his brain. And then he saw her stop. Her shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath, and she came stomping back. He watched her return with a question on his face.

“I take it back,” she sighed when she reached him. “That _is_ what I want. I want a man that sweeps me off my feet to give me flowers and read me poetry by candlelight. I want the ideal!” 

He was still reeling from the beginning of their conversation, and this confession took him further aback. “I didn’t expect you to feel this way,” he said, not knowing what else to say. 

“I know what you see,” she added, her voice quavering with passion. “I am a warrior, I am blunt and difficult and self-righteous. But my heart lies beneath all that. It yearns for these things I cannot have.” Her eyes narrowed, and she continued. “If you cannot see that, then desist. What enamours you is but the surface.”

He studied her in that moment, the hard lines of her face softened with unguarded emotion, a plea, but at the same time trying to push him away, ready to retreat into the safety of her armor, her stern demeanor, her image as a Seeker of Truth. He had come to like--no, he should just say it-- _love_ her face and all these things about her, and maybe now, since she was forcing his hand, he could be ready to admit that. To himself _and_ to her. He remembered her favorite books, and suddenly it made perfect sense. Here was that romantic heart, that passion, opened to him in a rare flash of vulnerability. He had the sense that if he backed down now, if he flinched away from this challenge, it might slip away and be lost to him forever. 

She was so tall that he barely had to tilt his head to look into her eyes. The cold wind blowing across the battlements had scattered the short hairs framing her face. Impulsively, he reached up and with the tips of his fingers gently smoothed the dark strands that had fallen across her forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. 

“You’re wrong, Cassandra,” he said softly. “I see it. I see you. More clearly than ever. And I’m sorry if I hurt you or failed to see it earlier. I can be that man.” 

She opened her eyes and pulled back abruptly, frowning. “No. You can’t. You’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste.”

The titles cut him more sharply than a blade. It hurt, and his confidence came crashing down around his ears as he leaned back against the wall. His brow furrowed and a lump rose in his throat. He tried to speak around it, his throat tight. 

“Is that what I am to you? A title and a symbol? ...a duty?” There it was. He laid himself bare and gave her the weapons to break him, if she chose. 

She didn’t speak for a long moment, and it felt like an eternity to him. Finally, she shook her head again and met his anxious eyes with her own steady gaze. “No. You are more than that. Much more.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and his mind tried to piece together all the meaning behind her words. 

“Wait- then what are you saying?” He turned and squared his body with hers. “So, it’s not our feelings that are the problem, it’s the way I’m addressing them?”

“It’s not that simple,” she replied, gesturing with her hand. “We have a mission, Inquisitor. We face death at every turn. The world hinges on our actions.”

He didn’t need to be reminded of that. The fear of losing her had haunted his sleepless nights since Redcliffe. Althea’s words rattled in his brain, about dithering and complications and war. Since when was he on the other side of that argument? 

“That doesn’t change how we feel,” he said, stubbornly, unwilling to let it go.

“It changes _everything_ ,” she said, and then she walked away, for real this time, leaving him there on the wall, stewing in his own agitation. 

\--

Althea kept her promise to track down the Red Templars. She and a small team of scouts traced their supply lines to a quarry in the Emprise du Lion. Cullen detailed their report in the war room, and Owain deployed immediately with Cassandra, Blackwall, and Sera to investigate further. 

They arrived at the Inquisition base camp in Sahrnia a few days later. Light snow was falling, coating everything in powder and a hushed silence. Owain breathed out white puffs of air as Althea walked them through the small town and briefed them on the Red Templar activity. 

“Sahrnia is a pretty small village, clearly,” she said. “It took heavy damage in the civil war, and then the Red Templars moved in and things just got worse. The quarry was owned by an Orlesian noble named Mistress Poulin, but she signed it over to the Templars a few months ago in exchange for supplies. They come back periodically to conscript more workers for the mines, but the people who go don’t tend to come home.”

He could see the evidence of her words written in the ruins of the town-- the broken down buildings and the weary faces of the few remaining villagers. They reached a rise in the land just beyond the village, where Althea paused and looked at Owain, hugging her jacket tightly around herself. “Things are bad here. The people are starving, they’re low on supplies, and winter hasn’t even really started yet. We’ve given them all the food and blankets we can spare, but it’s still not enough.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “Send a bird to Josie, and see what she can do. We should be able to divert some supplies from Skyhold. What about the Templars?”

“They’ve taken over Suledin Keep to the southwest as a base of operations,” she said, pointing to a tower in the distance. “But the quarry is more directly south from here. They have smaller camps set up along the way. You’ll probably want to clear those while you’re at it. We can come along behind and set up Inquisition outposts to secure the area.”

Owain nodded. He paused and stood with his hands in his coat pockets, taking in the view of the landscape. North of the village, he could see the ruins of a massive columned bridge, probably elven, spanning a frozen lake. To the west, an icy waterfall spilled down the face of a rocky cliff. It was unlike anything he had ever seen in the Marches or their travels through Ferelden.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Althea said, following his gaze. “I’d like it better if it weren’t so fucking cold.”

He let out a short laugh. It was another place, another experience he never would have had in his life at the Circle. He needed to stop tallying what that captivity had cost him. 

They set out for the quarry, hiking through the snow. Sera and Blackwall walked ahead, leaving Cassandra and Owain to follow behind. He could see Sera gesticulating wildly with her arms and distinctly heard her say the word “titscicles.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

“I was thinking about our conversation the other day,” Cassandra said, breaking the silence between them. “You know, it wasn’t a challenge.” 

He arched his brow at her. “Wasn’t it?” He certainly saw it that way. They hadn’t solved anything that day, but something had shifted between them all the same. He thought he knew where he stood with her, and he knew what she wanted.

“You needn’t do it just because I said you couldn’t.”

“That's not the _only_ reason,” he replied. “I said I would do it, and I will. You deserve to be courted, Cassandra. Is that so hard to believe?”

“I…” She hesitated a moment, then made a disgusted sound. “You enjoy complicating things, don’t you.”

“I _live_ for it,” he smirked sideways at her. She rolled her eyes in response. 

“Oy! Lovebirds!” 

Cassandra sputtered beside him while he snapped his head forward to look at Sera and Blackwall, who had stopped along a low ridge just ahead of them.

“Over there.” Sera jerked her head toward a Red Templar camp on the other side of the rocks. He could see five or six Red Templars, mostly warriors, in a small cluster of tents surrounded by wooden barricades. Their party was outnumbered, but just barely. 

Owain motioned to Sera to set up on higher ground and snipe at them from a distance. He would make the first move with his rift magic, pulling the Templars off their feet and into a central location, where Blackwall and Cassandra could move in and strike as hard as possible. If it worked, they could even their numbers in that initial push and mop up the rest with relative ease. 

The plan succeeded beautifully. The Red Templars were caught completely off guard, and by the time they recovered from the pull of the abyss, only three of them were left standing. Against Sera’s arrows, Owain’s magic, and the swords and shields of the warriors, they didn’t stand much chance. 

They searched the camp in the aftermath, finding a few documents and letters about lyrium shipments that Owain kept to give to Cullen later. Toward the rear of the camp, they found a large red lyrium vein, shimmering and buzzing in the cold air. They could not afford to leave these intact, and Dagna, the Inquisition’s archanist, had given him some special explosive charges for just that purpose. Owain took one from his pack and set it among the crystals, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. They shielded their eyes as the device did its job. 

A few paces beyond the camp, they came to a large caged wagon, like the kind that might be used to transport prisoners or slaves. At first glance, it was empty, but as they got closer, Owain could see the crumpled figure of a young woman inside. They hurried to reach her, and he could hear a low groan as he tried the door, unsuccessfully. He nodded at Sera, and she ran forward, pulling her picks from her pouch as she moved. “On it!"

The lock was off in a moment, and Blackwall gently lifted the woman out onto the ground. She was not in good condition. 

“What’s your name?” Owain asked, kneeling in the snow by her head, one hand on his knee. “Can you speak? What happened to you?”

The woman’s eyes fluttered in confusion and she groaned again, turning her head to look blankly from side to side. Unintelligible words croaked from her mouth, and then her head fell back, and she lost consciousness. 

Owain could feel the hum of red lyrium rolling in waves off her body, and it reminded him of Redcliffe. “She must be one of the villagers from Sahrnia, corrupted with the lyrium. Maybe this is what happens when you work in the mines for too long.” 

“Creepy,” Sera said. 

“Worse than creepy,” Blackwall added, folding his arms across his chest. “Evil.”

“And that woman, Mistress Poulin, sold her people to the Templars for this?” Cassandra said, shaking her head with disgust. “Despicable.” 

“Little people always getting the shit end of the stick,” Sera said. Owain couldn't agree more. 

They walked on with greater urgency, taking out more Red Templar camps and finding yet more cages of villagers. Their stories were all similar: taken by the Templars, given doses of red lyrium, made to work processing and shipping the material. Those who were weak didn’t last more than a few days after exposure--“seeding,” as the documents called it--while those who survived were given more. The truth about the “quarry” slowly dawned on them as they put the pieces together. It wasn’t about taking lyrium from the earth, it was about infecting villagers and using them as living hosts. 

Owain couldn’t find words to describe the horror of what they discovered. It was far worse than they had even guessed. Feeding red lyrium to willing and deluded Templars was one thing, but forcing it on innocent people to grow and harvest it from their bodies? That was a whole new level of evil. 

They fought their way down to the quarry, which was a complex of twisting passages and open pits covered in wooden scaffolding. It was also well fortified with Red Templars. They attacked as before, Owain’s rift magic and a quick strike from the warriors putting a dent in the first wave of enemies. He was weaving around the battle, putting down mines and casting spells, when he heard Sera’s shout from her vantage point on the scaffolds. “Incoming! Ten and three o’clock!” Her words were punctuated by the twang of her bow as she nocked and shot arrows at a furious speed. “Die!” 

Owain swiveled his head around and saw that she was right. Reinforcements were pouring into the pit from elsewhere in the quarry. He signalled to Cassandra and Blackwall to fall back toward Sera’s position. He fade-stepped up beside her and started launching spells from above, while the warriors stood side-by-side, holding the line below and cutting down any Templars who tried to cross it. 

He thought they were turning the tide as the reinforcements slowed, until he saw a mass of moving, glowing red crystal lumber out of a tunnel and into their clearing. It was like Haven all over again. There were four: two ranged creatures with crystal projectiles, and two behemoths with giant fists of red lyrium. _Shit._ He had a sinking feeling that this would not go well. 

Shards of red lyrium came flying up toward Sera and Owain, and he pulled her down to the wooden planks just in time. He looked back at the sharp fragments lodged deep in the ice behind them and swore again. He motioned to Sera, and they jumped down to the ground, landing behind Cassandra and Blackwall and the shelter of their shields. Owain blocked the next volley of shards with an ice wall and went on the attack. 

He heard the crash of broken glass beside him, which told him that Sera had consumed another flask of tempest potion and was shooting at an even more frantic pace. “Aim for the ranged ones!” he shouted at her, while cloaking himself in ice armor and stepping out through the fray to drop mines at their feet. The combination of his freezing spells and Sera’s shattering barrage ended the flurry of red lyrium shards. One positive, at least.

The behemoths, however, were much more problematic. Cassandra and Blackwall already had their hands full holding off the regular Red Templars, but having to block and dodge the swings of these monsters broke up their line, and they were soon fighting back to back, surrounded by enemies. 

Sera was back up on the scaffold, launching grenades and expletives down at the enemies below--always a sign she was running low on arrows. Owain did his best to pull enemies away from the warriors, setting mines and weakening them with his rift magic, but he could tell that Cassandra and Blackwall were tiring, blocking more and dodging less, and his own mana reserves were running dangerously low. Not good. 

They were down to the two giants and a handful of regular Templars. Blackwall held the attention of one of the behemoths on his side, while Cassandra faced down the other. She parried the sword of one of the Templar knights and turned to thrust her sword through his gut. He fell toward her and pushed her weary legs off balance, right into the path of a giant claw of red lyrium as it came swinging in on her flank. 

The behemoth raked her along her side and tumbled her to the ground. Owain saw it happen, and a shout tore involuntarily from his lungs. He fade-stepped toward Cassandra, launching a stonefist that hit the enemy square in the face and sent it reeling backwards. At the limits of both his strength and his mana, he dropped his staff, sinking to his knees in front of the Seeker. The Templar shook its head and roared at Owain, and as it started toward him, he knew then that they could not win. 

He looked down at his hands in despair, where the anchor twinkled at him and gave him a sudden idea. A hope, a last-ditch prayer in the wind, he threw his hand up and released all the power he could summon, just as he had done at the breach. White-hot pain ripped through his arm and burst from his palm. A blinding green light appeared, and a rift opened just above the heads of the remaining Templars. A great flash of light and a whoosh of rushing air, and the rift closed a few seconds later, swallowing all sign of their enemies. 

Owain clutched his hand in the ensuing silence, doubled over in pain and disbelief that the battle was over and that they were still alive. Blackwall rushed toward him and then past him, to Cassandra’s prone form on the ground, and Owain turned and forgot his own pain as he saw the Seeker laying there, clutching the wound in her side and panting white breaths into the cold air. Blackwall, the soldier that he was, lost no time while Owain sat paralyzed in fear. He was undoing the buckles to her armor, trying to gain access to the wounds underneath. Even Sera had rushed over to help.

He came out of his stupor to the Warden shouting his name. “Inquisitor! Trevelyan! Once I get this off, you need to stop the bleeding! If she loses too much, she’s done for!”

 _Shit. Shitshitshit._ He wiped his hand across his eyes and tried to remember all the healing magic he knew, wishing in vain that Solas or Dorian were here. Hell, even Althea was better at this than he was. _Fuck._

Her breastplate off, Sera pulled up her tunic to reveal a deep gash in Cassandra’s abdomen that was oozing crimson onto the snow beneath her. She was in shock, breathing rapidly and staring up into the sky. Owain’s hands shook as he touched her wound, hot and slick with blood, and then he realized he didn’t even have enough mana to cast the necessary spells. 

He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from trembling and remembered the lyrium potions in his pouch. He pulled a glowing blue vial from his belt with shaky hands and bit the cork off, thinking about the reasons he so rarely used these. He hated the artificial sense of power, the fuzziness that clouded his mind, and the exhaustion that set in when the effects wore off. But none of that mattered now. The woman he _loved_ lay bleeding out in front of him, so he threw back the vial and shuddered as mana flowed back into his veins. He put his hands on Cassandra’s wound again and poured magic into it, knitting her flesh back together as best as he could. He glanced at Cassandra’s eyes as he worked, and it gave him strength to see them locked on his own. “Stay with me, stay with me,” he muttered as he worked.

Once the spell was done, he collapsed back onto the snowy ground, his hands still red with blood. Blackwall held Cassandra’s head up and administered a healing potion, and only then did Owain feel like he could breathe. The magic and potions would reverse the worst of the damage, though she was still weak, and it would take time to fully heal. 

They set camp in the shadow of an elven ruin, far enough from the quarry that they could no longer hear the red lyrium’s song. Cassandra could barely walk, so Blackwall and Owain supported her between them as they staggered slowly out of the mine. 

Owain settled her on her bedroll in one of the tents and helped her take off her gloves and boots. They were too tired to speak. Words were inadequate anyway, to express his immense relief that she would recover. He spread furs and extra blankets over her, anything they could rustle from their packs. All that done, he looked in her eyes and touched her shoulder before rising to leave. She stopped him, reaching for his hand. 

“Stay,” she whispered, looking back at him. 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded, and he was powerless to say no. 

He left the tent, briefly, to grab his pack and let Blackwall and Sera know he would be keeping watch over the Seeker. In case she needed more potions or healing overnight, he pointed out. They didn't argue, though Sera peppered him with enough kissy sounds and eyebrow waggles that it tried his patience. He didn’t care. He would not leave her side, not now, not after what happened today. 

Cassandra was already asleep when he ducked back inside. Exhausted himself, he spread his bedroll beside hers and sat with his hands clasped between his knees, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He could hear Blackwall and Sera by the fire outside, the elf’s high-pitched cackle strung across the Warden’s deep rumble of a laugh. 

He opened his left hand and massaged the palm with his right thumb, watching the green light shift and shimmer in the dark tent. It had hurt, that final desperate blast in the quarry. He felt as if all the energy from his body had been sapped and poured into that rift. The dull ache of it now seemed to pulse in his very bones. 

He had nearly lost her that day. It was his worst fear since he joined the Inquisition, so close to being made real. The closest they had ever come, but he knew now that there would only be more occasions like this. Every time they went into battle together, there was a chance that one of them wouldn’t walk out. So what, then? Would they live in that fear, always? Would they continue to insist that the risks were too great, that such danger precluded any joy and peace they might find in each other’s arms? Or would they reach out and grasp what they could?

He closed his left hand and opened his right, calling forth a small flame that warmed and lit the interior of the tent. He watched it lick idly across his palm, the bright reds and oranges and yellows searing shadows into his vision. He could feel the effects of the lyrium wearing off, leaving a scorched earth of utter fatigue in its wake. Even his usual sleeplessness would be no match for this. He closed his hand on the flame and took off his coat, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the ground. 

He woke sometime later, his eyes flickering open to a still dark tent, and the warm, shadowy form of Cassandra resting against his own. He started to pull back but stopped when he realized the weight on his outstretched arm was her head pillowed against his bicep. He stilled himself, not wanting to wake her. Her back was to him, pressed against his chest. His pulse quickened at the warmth radiating between them, skin separated only by the thin fabric of their shirts. 

How had they ended up in this position? Had he moved, or had she? Impossible to tell. She shifted slightly against him, and he froze, realizing with embarrassment that the contact was evoking a _response_ from him. He moved carefully to angle his hips away from hers and cursed his unconscious body for being the worst kind of traitor. 

He listened again to the steady inhale and exhale of her breath as he tried to quiet his own. He couldn’t help noticing her scent, a blend of sweat, leather, steel, and something uniquely Cassandra. It comforted him, and he drifted back to sleep.

When he woke again, there was pre-dawn light seeping through the canvas. He felt the weight of Cassandra’s head still resting on his arm and knew better than to move, this time. When his eyes focused, he saw that she was facing him now. She was close, her knees brushing his legs and her face inches from his chest. One of her hands was twisted in the cloth of his shirt, and he could feel her breath warm on his skin. He pulled back just enough to see her face more clearly. 

He lay there in the quiet and studied her, memorizing every feature, as proof against any repetition of yesterday’s near miss. Her face was serene and relaxed in sleep, and to him, sublimely beautiful. Her lashes brushed the tops of her cheeks, and he could see her eyes moving beneath their lids. Her lips, though dry and chapped in the cold air of the Emprise, were full and slightly parted. He tried not to think about how they might taste. 

He sighed, and she stirred. Her eyes still closed, her fingers gripped his shirt more tightly. She pulled herself closer, burying her nose in his chest. A soft sound escaped from her, and he almost melted inside. Even so, he didn’t dare to move. 

She pulled back and her eyes blinked open, pools of deepest black ringed with hazel that looked up at him from beneath heavy lids and those long, dark lashes. She blinked slowly at him, and there was an unmistakable _heat_ in her gaze that stoked desire in his belly. “Owain,” she said, softly, and hearing his name on her lips made his heart pound in his ears. She tugged on his shirt again, and it took every scrap of his self-control not to press his body against hers and cover those lips with his own, not to take this as far as she would let him.

Ignoring the treason in his breeches, the last rational part of his brain reminded him that she was injured and drained, and he couldn’t possibly risk hurting her or taking advantage of her condition. What’s more, this was absolutely _not_ part of proper courtship, by any definition. 

So, he pulled her close like she wanted, but instead of pressing his lips to hers, he bent his neck and kissed the braid on top of her head and whispered her name into her hair like a spell or a prayer, like the key to the jumble of feelings that were filling his heart. She gave a soft sigh of contentment and fell back to sleep, and he curled his body protectively around that which had become most precious to him, the woman he would give anything and everything to defend.

\--

Flowers were hard to come by in Skyhold. There was little room for the purely decorative in a wartime castle. The limited space in the gardens was devoted to herbs and roots that could be used for healing potions and practical elixirs. So Owain settled for wildflowers and told himself that was better, anyway, for a woman who shunned frivolity and ostentation. 

He scoured the hills below the keep for them, though they were scarce this time of year, and added them to a handful of renegade, late-season roses he had found creeping up a wall behind the stables--they were the crown jewels of his collection. It was not yet dawn when he left that morning, but the sun was well risen by the time he assembled a respectable bouquet and returned to the castle. He tied it with a bit of twine and left it propped against the practice dummy where Cassandra came to train every morning. 

He took the long way back to the keep for the morning council meeting, pausing on the wall where he could gauge her reaction from a distance. He judged that she would show up for training in a few minutes, and he was right. She picked up the flowers and held them close to her chest. She looked around, guiltily, for any witnesses, and seeing none, she held them to her face, closed her eyes, and inhaled their scent. 

He grinned like a fool the whole way to the war room and didn’t even try to hide it. It would have been impossible, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter subtitle: The One with All The Feels. 
> 
> The "I want the ideal" scene with Cassandra is one of my favorites, so I tried to do it justice here. Thanks for reading! :)


	14. Waxing, Waning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumors, dancing, and moonlight.

Cullen’s door opened with a groan, and as he stepped inside, Owain had the distinct impression that he’d interrupted something. Althea stood leaning against the desk with a smug demeanor while Cullen looked startled, the remains of a smile still hanging on his face. Owain flicked his eyes between the two of them and couldn’t help breaking into a grin. 

“I didn’t realize you were busy,” he said. “I could come back later.”

Cullen raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Ah, no, that won't be necessary. Scout Althea was just leaving.” He and Althea exchanged a quick look. 

“Inquisitor. Commander.” Althea nodded at each of them and turned, trailing her fingers along the edge of the desk and walking slowly toward the door. Owain watched her leave, a smirk still playing at his lips. She caught his eye and mouthed the words “tavern” and “later.” He acknowledged her with a twitch of an eyebrow and then turned his attention to Cullen, slouching into the chair in front of the commander’s desk. 

Cullen had been watching her, too. The door swung shut, and he cleared his throat before moving to business. “Scout Althea was giving me the latest news from Sahrnia. Our supplies have been distributed among the villagers, and it seems conditions are improving, especially with the Red Templars gone.”

“Good,” Owain said, letting his hands hang between his knees as he leaned forward in his seat. “Any word on the villagers that were infected with the red lyrium? The ones we freed?”

Cullen sighed and looked down at his desk. “That's less encouraging, I’m afraid. Most of them have died, though a few have managed to survive this far. We’ve dispatched Dagna and a special team of healers to attempt treatment. Or at least learn what we can so their deaths won't be in vain.”

Owain nodded, quiet for a moment as his mind crowded with images of corpses sprouting crystals of red lyrium. “And the Red Templars? Have you reviewed the documents from the quarry?”

“Yes, those papers were exactly what we needed, thank you. What the Templars were doing there… Growing lyrium from people…” Cullen dropped into his chair and shook his head. “I can’t believe the Order has come to this.”

He went on. “You managed to disrupt their primary supply in the Dales, but I’m afraid that’s not the end of them yet. According to the documents, they’re led by a man named Samson-- a former Templar. I actually knew him in Kirkwall… The letters don’t mention their base of operations, but we should have enough clues to track them down. It’s only a matter of time now.”

Owain looked at Cullen in surprise. “You knew him? How exactly does a former Templar from Kirkwall come to lead Corypheus’s army?”

“To be fair, Inquisitor, a former Templar from Kirkwall leads _your_ army.” Cullen sighed, glancing quickly at him and then away. “We shared quarters when I was assigned to Kirkwall after… Well, when I first arrived. He seemed like a decent sort, though I didn't know him that well. He was expelled from the order sometime later, and I know he was addicted to lyrium, begging for it on the streets last I heard. It’s possible that that need drove him to… to do terrible things.” 

“Makes sense,” Owain mused, furrowing his brow. “Unlimited lyrium supply, not to mention quite a promotion from beggar to general. Why was he expelled from the order in the first place? What did he do?”

“There was a mage…” Cullen explained. “Maddox was his name, I think. Samson used to smuggle letters between him and his sweetheart. Knight-Commander Meredith found out and had Samson removed from the order as a result. Maddox was made Tranquil.”

Owain’s eyes widened in disbelief and horror. “You made a man Tranquil over _love letters_? Maker’s breath. And people wonder why mages rebelled.” Disgust was plain in his voice. 

“The official charge was corrupting the integrity of a Templar,” Cullen said. He rose from his chair and crossed his arms, leaning next to the window behind his desk. “Meredith wielded the brand for much lesser offenses, believe me. I already told you she was mad. In any case, Maddox became a talented enchanter of magical artifacts. He was still in Kirkwall as far as I know.” 

Owain sat thoughtfully while the commander stared out the window. “This seems a little personal for you, Cullen,” he observed quietly. If he knew Samson, how many other acquaintances and former brothers-in-arms might be among the Red Templar’s ranks? "Are you sure you can fight against people you know?” 

Cullen turned back to him with a determined look. “Feel bad for that mage if you will, Inquisitor, but if Samson serves Corypheus, then he deserves none of our sympathy. What he did to innocent Templars, what he did to people in the Dales... He corrupted the Order, used their devotion to twist them into something they should have stood against. Never mind what his Red Templars did to us at Haven. It's unforgivable.”

Owain looked up at him. “Samson will pay for what he’s done, Cullen. We’ll make sure of that.” 

Cullen just sighed and turned back to the window. He blinked hard and rubbed his fingers into his temples. 

“How are you feeling?” Owain asked.

“Better, today,” Cullen replied. “It comes and goes. Some days are better than others.” 

“Is there anything I can do? If you need a break, or if there are herbs we could get…”

“No-” he said quickly, turning to face Owain again. “I mean, thank you, Inquisitor. You’ve done enough already.” He paused before continuing. “What about you? You have enough burdens of your own, I’m sure. How are you holding up?”

“I’m managing,” Owain replied, surprised at the concern. “As well as can be expected, I guess.” 

“I imagine all this Templar business can’t be easy for you, with the mage rebellion and all, what you must have seen at the Circle. Is it difficult then, to be with a Seeker? They're not the same as Templars, but...”

Owain frowned. “What do you mean? Are you talking about Cassandra?”

Cullen halted mid-sentence and looked suddenly embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck again and turning his eyes to the far corner of the room. “Oh! My apologies, Inquisitor! I thought that you-- Oh, Maker’s breath. I should know better than to listen to soldiers’ gossip.”

“It’s alright,” Owain replied a beat later, feeling a little sorry for Cullen in his fluster. “I can guess where that idea came from.” He made a mental note to wring Sera’s neck later. Or at the very least set her hair on fire. “It’s not... entirely off-base, to be honest,” he added. “But perhaps a bit ahead of the real state of things.”

“I don’t mean to pry, Trevelyan,” Cullen said hurriedly, still trying to make up for his blunder. He rubbed his neck and sighed. “I’ll admit I don’t have many friends, especially from before the Inquisition. But I owe a lot to Cassandra. If she hadn’t brought me here and offered me this position, I don’t know where I would be. I just want her to be happy, that’s all.”

Owain nodded. “Me, too.”

\--

Owain swung his leg over the bench and took a seat opposite Althea. It had been a while since they'd talked. They were on the second floor of the Herald’s Rest, where the noise of the crowd downstairs faded a bit into the background. It was relatively early in the evening, and the tables around them had yet to fill up. 

He sniffed the drink she poured for him and reached over to examine the bottle. “How did you convince Cabot to part with a whole bottle of his finest?”

“I told him it was for you,” she replied, simply. She watched him, propping her chin on one hand and running a finger around the rim of her glass. 

Owain chuckled and took a sip. “Close enough.”

“You're not going to ask what your commander and I were discussing this afternoon?”

“Should I?” He twinkled his grey eyes at her. “I assume it was all highly professional and perfectly proper.”

“Of course,” she replied, an answering sparkle in her bright blue eyes. 

“All about Sahrnia and supplies and red lyrium, according to him.” 

“Sounds right to me.”

“Mm. And whilst you were batting your eyes at him, did he explain how he was vehemently opposed to me rescuing you? That you wouldn’t be here if he had his way?” That came out sounding more defensive than he intended. He hoped she wouldn't notice. 

“He did,” she replied with a shrug. “He apologized, profusely and unnecessarily. It doesn’t bother me-- I know it wasn’t personal. And frankly, he was right, and it probably would have been a better decision, given what we found in the Dales.” 

She paused, looking down into her glass and then back at him, her eyes narrowed. “What’s your problem, anyway? I thought you liked Cullen.” 

“I do,” he said, raising his brows and carding a hand through his hair. “He's a good man, in spite of all the shit he's been through.” He shook his head and blew out his breath. “Sorry. I'm just being stupid. Habit, I guess. I spent most of my life trying to keep Templars _away_ from you, Thea. I never expected you to go running toward one, even if he is an _ex-_ Templar.” 

She stared at him for a moment, a dark, inscrutable look in her eyes. “Yeah. Well, this is different,” she said quietly before turning her gaze away. 

The matter seemed closed, so he left it. For now, anyway. He took another sip of whiskey, and they sat in thoughtful silence for a while.

“By the way, I've been meaning to ask you something,” he said a few minutes later. “I need a favor. Next time you go through Redcliffe or Val Royeaux, can you keep your eye out for a certain book?”

“A book?” she asked, a smile brewing at the corner of her mouth. “Why are you asking _me_ to get you a book? You’ve got people stocking your library already, can't you just add it to the list?”

“Well,” he coughed, embarrassed now. “It’s… a little more personal than that. I’d do it myself, but we're headed to the Western Approach in a couple days, and I don't expect I'll have time for shopping. It’s… I need some poetry.” He slid a scrap of paper toward her across the table. “Those are just a couple possible titles, but if you see anything that might work…”

Althea unfolded the parchment and blinked at him, her expression now a full-blown smirk. “You’re fucking kidding me. You want me to get you _sex poetry_?”

Owain almost choked on his whiskey. “Well, shit.” He coughed again. “When you put it that way…” He made to reach for the paper to take it back, but Althea snatched it safely out of his reach and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket.

“I’m going to assume this is for your lady love and that you haven’t developed a sudden literary interest?” she said, picking up her glass again.

“Obviously,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”

“Of course,” she said, with a sly grin. “Anything to get the Inquisitor laid. Maker knows he needs it.”

“Ugh.” He rolled his eyes for the second time that minute. 

“One condition, though,” she said, pausing with her glass in the air. 

“What?”

“Teach me to play chess?” Her eyes shone at him across the table, and he could tell she was being sincere, for once.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Deal.”

Their quiet companionship was interrupted by Dorian sliding onto the bench next to Althea and helping himself to their bottle.

“I’m told you two are the reason we’re always low on the good stuff,” he said, already mid-pour. 

“Closing rifts and kissing noble ass is hard work, Dorian. It’s only fair that we be duly rewarded.” Owain raised his glass to the Tevinter.

“You almost make that sound like an offer, Trevelyan.” He took a sip and sighed appreciatively. “Now, what’s going on here? Are we discussing our favorite strapping young Templars?” He smirked at both of them.

“ _She’s_ not a Templar,” Althea said archly, before Owain could interject. “Or so it’s been explained to me.”

“Seekers, Templars, whatever.” Dorian waved it off. “Semantics. Tell me, what is it with you Circle mages and Templar types, anyway? Is it the thrill of illicit affairs? The allure of the forbidden?”

Owain and Althea exchanged a look, but she spoke first. “Maybe,” she shrugged. “Who can resist a little star-crossed love between traditional adversaries?” Then she twisted her mouth wickedly. “Almost like Tevinters and Qunari, perhaps?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dorian sniffed.

Owain coughed on his drink again. “Qunari? You mean... you and Bull?” He really was behind on his gossip. 

They looked at him with pity. 

“You ought to pay more attention, Trevelyan,” Dorian said, sipping at his glass. “Though I suppose we can’t blame you too much. Most of the talk lately is about you and your heroics in the Dales. They say you defeated a whole pack of Red Templars to protect her, that you saved her life with healing magic and kept a vigil over her through the night. I’m hardly an expert, but surely that’s enough to make any woman swoon, yes?”

“Cassandra does not swoon,” Owain replied. “And nothing happened anyway.”

“Well, you would know better than any of us,” said Althea. They looked at him with matching satisfied grins.

“Ugh. I’m going to kill Sera.”

An arm appeared around his neck then, accompanied by a whiff of sour breath near his ear. “Did I hear my name?” Sera ruffled a hand through his hair as he tried not to spill his drink. Varric and Iron Bull joined them at the table. 

“Is poor widdle Inky thinking about his lady? You’ve got a _thing_ for her, don’t you? Your thing. Her thing. Doing things.”

“Nope, nothing like that.” Gripping the elf’s wrist between his thumb and forefinger, he plucked her hand from his head and extricated himself from her hug. She dropped onto the bench beside him. 

“Aw, what!” she said, pressing her shoulder to his and leaning over confidentially. Which was pointless given the volume of her voice in his ear. “You do know how to treat her, right? D’you need me to show you? If you get me a peach...”

“Oh, he knows,” Althea grinned from across the table, clearly enjoying his misery. 

_Maker’s breath._ He glared at all of them and threw back the rest of his drink. “I hate every single one of you,” he said, as he reached for the bottle. 

Varric cleared his throat and pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. “Alright, Buttercup, let’s lay off the Inquisitor. I’m sure the Lady Seeker is making him miserable enough as it is. Anyone for a game of Wicked Grace?”

Owain shot him the most appreciative look he could muster. “Deal me in.”

\--

Just as he often began his days with a stroll on the battlements, Owain liked to end them there, too, walking off the cares of the day and trying to tempt his body to sleep. As bright and beautiful as Skyhold could be during the day, the castle at night held an altogether different kind of charm. The heavy stone walls and towers formed a backdrop of black, pierced by points of light from candlelit windows and torches along the walks. On clear nights, he would watch the distant stars blanket the sky or observe the moons holding court high above, bathing everything in their otherworldly light. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, he had convinced Cassandra to join him as he made his slow tour of Skyhold’s walls, and with her at his side, the air felt electric, charged with possibility. He breathed deep and filled his lungs with it.

They walked in silence at first as they set out from the main keep. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and turned to look at her every now and then, unable to stop the slight smile that curved his mouth with every glance. One of the things he liked about Cassandra was this easy quiet, the understanding that he didn’t need to fill the space with words. 

“Did you like the flowers?” he asked, finally breaking the silence as they left the stairs and started along the eastern wall. 

She looked at him and smiled. “I did. They were beautiful. Thank you. Where did you manage to find roses at this time of year?”

“Ah, but I can’t give away all my methods now, or there won't be any left for next time,” he smirked. “Need to maintain some level of mystery.”

The battlements were mostly empty at this hour, but they met the occasional guard on watch as they made their way around the walls. 

“They will talk, you know,” Cassandra said, after the second such guard saluted them in passing. “About what the Inquisitor and the Seeker are doing walking together at night.”

Owain snorted. “It’s too late for that. They’re already talking. I can only imagine how bad it must be if even Cullen mentioned it to me.”

“Commander Cullen?” she said, surprised. “I can’t believe he would give credence to such rumors. You do not care what they say?”

He paused to look at her. “Why would I? Why would I be offended about being linked with the most beautiful woman in the Inquisition?”

She sputtered at his compliment. “I- But it’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He arched a brow at her. _Not yet,_ he wanted to say. “What if I wanted it to be?”

She huffed and looked away. He thought she might be blushing, but it was hard to tell in the dark. 

They kept walking, and as they approached the tavern, he could hear music pouring out of the open windows, even from up here on the battlements. It was more lively than Maryden’s usual standards. He could make out the beat of a drum and the strains of a fiddle alongside the minstrel's mellow chords. It gave him an idea. 

He grinned at Cassandra and jogged forward, pulling open the door to the tower next to the Herald’s Rest. It was empty, as always. The debris and broken furniture that littered the floor were low on the list of priorities for Skyhold improvements, and people didn’t tend to linger here. The music was muffled as Cassandra shut the door behind them, and he doubted his plan for a moment until he cracked the door to the tavern’s third floor and sound came rushing in to fill the space. Yes, this would do just fine. 

Cassandra stood there, puzzled, waiting for him with a question on her face. Silvery moonlight filtered in through the mostly missing roof, and a slice of faint candlelight shone from the open tavern door. Still, it wasn’t quite enough. Owain rummaged in the pile of rubbish next to the splintered remains of a wooden bedframe and turned up a small stub of a wax candle. “Aha!” he said, triumphantly, before setting it down on the floor and lighting it with a snap of his fingers. 

“What are you…?” she began. She trailed into silence as Owain dusted himself off and stood squarely in front of her, dropping into his best formal bow. 

“Would you care to dance, Lady Cassandra?”

“What? Dance? Here? You can’t be serious.”

He said nothing, just stood there, holding his bow and offering his hand.

“Oh. You _are_ serious.” She took his hand but narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 

“You wanted to be courted, Cassandra,” he said, as he held her hand firmly and wrapped an arm around her waist. She let out a soft gasp as he snugged her body against his. “What could be more courtly than a dance? Besides, there are no assassinations to stop tonight.”

She looked at him in disbelief for a moment. Then she smiled that slow smile that never failed to disarm him, every time, and put her free hand on his shoulder. “Alright. I suppose this isn’t terrible.” 

“Flatterer,” he smirked. And then he moved them into the dance. 

She was a bit stiff at first, as if remembering the steps from a very long time ago. He held her close, perhaps closer than was strictly appropriate, but she didn’t seem to mind. This was no Winter Palace, and there were no eyes here other than their own. 

As the first song turned into the next, she seemed to relax, easing into the steps and the strong circle of his arms as he led them around the small space in that tower. It was everything he wanted it to be. They moved as one, their coordination on this makeshift dance floor no less than their collective grace on the battlefield. His heart soared on it, her closeness, the heat of her body under his hands, the warmth in her eyes as he looked down at her, warmth that told him she was enjoying it as much as he was. 

They spun to a halt as the music faded away in the tavern, and the candle guttered out, having finally given its all to their cause. They stood there together in the renewed silence, in no hurry to separate. It was darker now without the candle, but he was close enough to see her face clearly in the light that remained. He could feel her breath brushing his neck and the pull of her dark eyes looking up at him. She was so close. He could kiss her now. He should. He would.

“Can you love another mage? They’re so different. Long brown hair, piercing green eyes. You liked those eyes, the way they looked at you when you-”

“Cole!” Cassandra said, sharply. The two of them sprang apart as the young man’s shadow darkened the doorway to the tavern. They hadn’t even noticed the door swinging open. 

Owain looked at her in puzzlement. Were these her thoughts? 

“Colored, patterned light, blue and green and red. Rough linen falling in a heap to the floor, warm skin and hot breath, the taste of her salt on your tongue…”

And… those were definitely his. Time to go. “Ok, Cole, please stop doing that. We’re going to go now. We’ll see you later.” He headed quickly for the opposite door with Cassandra right behind him. 

They made their escape and emerged again into the brisk air. They found a quiet corner of the battlements and stood side by side, leaning their elbows on the cool stone. Owain was breathless from the dancing, not to mention Cole’s surprise appearance and his own disappointment at the missed opportunity. 

“Cole needs to learn not to pry into people’s private thoughts,” Cassandra sighed. 

Owain let out a short laugh. “Honestly? I forget he even exists, sometimes.” 

They were quiet for a moment, watching the stars and catching their breath. 

“You’re a good dancer,” he said. “I suppose that’s not surprising, for Nevarran royalty. Josie should have made you do a turn in Halamshiral.”

“Believe me, she tried,” she sighed again. “It has been some time since I danced, but it was ingrained in me from when I was very young. My uncle made me take lessons. I was like a little doll to him, with dresses and dancing and curtseys.”

“I'm having a hard time picturing that,” he said, amused at the contrast with the warrior woman he knew and remembering his own abbreviated education in noble pursuits. “Did they ever throw suitors at you? Your family, I mean.”

“Oh, yes. Waves of them. Until I broke the arm of one of them. Then there were fewer.”

He laughed. “I should be careful then. I’m a bit attached to my arms.” She punched him lightly in the bicep, as if to prove the point. 

They lapsed again into silence. The moons had moved overhead, and he could see the wind gusting snow across the mountains in the distance. The anchor surged, and he looked down at it, the familiar glow twinkling on his palm. Absently, he opened his right hand and conjured a flame that flickered in the breeze.

Cassandra turned to him, leaning her hip against the wall. She looked him in the eye and took his hands into her own, holding them by the wrists and watching the opposing green and orange light play across his skin. He let her touch him, his eyes scanning her face for her thoughts.

“Why do you do that?” she asked.

“What?”

“This thing, with your hand and the flame. You do that, often.”

He supposed that was true, if he thought about it, but he didn’t, usually. He frowned and closed his fingers on the flame. He looked down from one hand to the other and searched himself for an answer to her question. 

“When I look at my left hand, all I see is the anchor, and it feels foreign to me,” he said. “I still don’t know what it is or why I have it. But my magic-- I can see myself in that. I can look at that flame and think, 'Yeah, this is me. This is what made me who I am.' I suppose it’s comforting, in a way. A reminder, after all we’ve been through.”

She didn’t say anything but creased her brow slightly and continued studying his hands. He watched her, his heart beating faster in his chest, thrilling at her slow, unhurried pace. Still holding his left wrist, Cassandra opened his fingers and ran her thumb across the mark, watching it pulse with light beneath the surface of his skin. The smooth leather of her glove left a cool trail that tingled across his palm. His blood started to heat at the unexpected intimacy of it all. 

She looked up at him and searched his eyes for something he couldn’t guess, and then she released his left hand and took up the right. The fire was gone now, but she spread his hand flat anyway and traced her fingers slowly across it, from the pulse at his wrist to the lines on his palm and the calloused tips of his fingers. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled at her touch, and he shivered slightly. He couldn’t help it.

He felt his eyelids growing heavy with lust and inhaled a ragged breath as he stared at her. She smiled at him again, and it felt like she was telling him a secret meant for him alone. She raised his hand to her lips and brushed a kiss on his palm before pressing it to her cheek. 

He held his hand there and looked at her, stunned for a moment by this woman who had so completely captured his heart. He ran his thumb along the deep scar on her cheek and thought about how it didn’t make her any less beautiful to him. If anything, the opposite was true, that her determination and bravery only made her more amazing in his view. She closed her eyes for a moment at his touch and then opened them again to meet his gaze. 

Finally, her boldness sparked courage within him, as it so often did in battle or in the war room, and in everything else they had done together. He curled his free arm around her waist and pulled her body tightly toward him, his hand on her cheek tipped her face up to meet his, and he covered her lips with his own. 

Like her dancing, her mouth was stiff at first, and then surprisingly soft and yielding under his. She moved her hands up to his chest, holding him close as she gripped the lapels of his coat, holding on even after he released her. He settled his hands on either side of her as she leaned back against the wall, resting his forehead against hers and looking into her eyes, breathless again. 

“Cassandra,” he said. “I… You’re so…” Words were failing him, escaping him. Every word except her name, which he wanted to repeat over and over and over again. 

There was _want_ rising in his belly, and answering heat in her dark eyes. 

“Stop talking,” she said, yanking him against her and crashing their lips together again with her trademark impatience. He smiled into the kiss at how very _Cassandra_ that was and matched her urgency beat for beat, licking at the line of her lips, delving into her mouth and letting his tongue dance around hers. She bit at him, catching his lower lip between her teeth, and he groaned helplessly in response. 

He forced himself to lean back again, to look at her. She made another sound of impatience, but he resisted for just a second, wanting to memorize that moment. The way the moonlight framed her figure against the wall, the way she looked at him with naked desire. 

If their first kiss was quick and chaste, and the second bruising with intensity, the third, fourth, and fifth were a slow, relaxed exploration of each other. He found the taste of her endlessly fascinating. He surveyed her mouth with his tongue, biting, sucking, licking just to see what sounds she might make in response. He kissed along her jaw, along her neck, breathing in the sweet smell of her skin and discovering the spot behind her ear that made her whimper and roll her hips against his. With a wicked smirk, he nuzzled her throat with his stubbled chin, making her buck against him with need. 

But Cassandra Pentaghast was not a woman to be trifled with, and everything he did to her, she dealt back with added fury. She kissed the corner of his mouth and scraped her teeth along the rough edge of his jaw, drawing a line to his ear. She ran her tongue around the shell of it and whispered his name, making him shudder with the thrill down his spine. Her hands reached up to his shoulders and pulled him down to her while her fingers tangled in his hair. She hooked a leg around his and pressed herself against the hardness in his breeches, and it was an exquisite kind of torture. He groaned again and thought about forgetting this whole courtship thing. Who needed poetry when he could have her right now? Right here? Rumors be damned.

He wrapped his arms around her and let his hands wander as they kissed, running along the smooth leather of her breeches, up the curve of her hips and perfect, perfect ass. Up, up, up to the dip of her waist and the… cold hard metal of her breastplate. He grunted in frustration and pulled away, breaking their kiss. 

“What?” she asked, looking at him with confusion and a twinge of hurt. 

“Your armor,” he said, with a wry smile, one arm still draped around her waist, her body still flush to his, trapped between him and the stone wall. He tapped his fingers on the metal over her sternum. “It’s so very… protective.” 

She snorted with surprised laughter. “You don’t complain about that when it saves your life on the battlefield, Owain,” she pointed out, as he resumed his meticulous mapping of the parts of her not encased in steel. 

He spoke between licks and nips at her throat. “That’s because-- on the battlefield-- it’s not preventing me-- access-- to your beautiful body, Cassandra.”

Her breath hitched as he found that sensitive spot near her pulse again. “Oh, really? I am not sure I’m convinced. Tell me. Tell me what you would do if I was not wearing this armor.”

He pulled back and looked at her, his hands still gripping her hips, pushing them back against the wall as he ground into her. She met his gaze with lust-darkened eyes, and her smile now was a challenge. She rested her arms on his shoulders, her fingers drawing slow circles in the hair on the back of his head. 

He swallowed and let his eyes move hungrily over her clothed body from head to toe, fully aware that she was watching him do it. 

“What would I do?” he said, softly, a sly playfulness coloring his tone. He trailed his fingers lightly over the metal, letting them pause with his words. “I’d kiss you. Here. And here. And here.” She bit her lower lip as she watched him with rapt attention, and it only spurred him on.

“I’d touch you, here,” he said, as he cupped the curve of steel over her breast. “And here,” as he swiped his thumb across the spot where her nipple would have been, under those layers of metal and leather. Her eyes fluttered, and she drew in a halting breath. 

“I’d put my mouth-”

“Ugh.” She didn’t let him finish before her fingers flew to the clasps of her armor and started working at the straps that held it in place. He tried to help her, but he was slow, his fingers fumbling in the dark at unfamiliar fastenings. 

As they struggled with her armor, a hapless guardsman approached, holding his torch aloft. The light was blinding after all this time in only moonlight. They froze in place. 

“Who’s there?” the guardsman asked. They glared back at him, and his expression turned to horror as he realized who he was talking to and guessed what he had interrupted, as evident by the flush on their faces and the half undone state of Cassandra’s armor. He stepped back, muttering a stream of apologies, and hurried down the wall like there were demons on his heels. 

It was over in half a minute, but Owain could feel that the spell had broken. He breathed hard and came back to himself, looking at Cassandra doing the same, and he knew the moment was gone. It would not be reclaimed, not tonight. He sighed and watched with resignation as Cassandra re-fastened the buckles of her breastplate. 

He knew what she would say, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying anyway. “We could go somewhere else,” he suggested quietly. “Somewhere more private.” He tried not to sound like he was begging.

She looked at him warmly, but a bit sad, and he knew then that she shared his disappointment, but it wasn't enough to overcome her sense of duty. She touched his cheek with her gloved hand and kissed him lightly on the lips. 

“Another time. Perhaps this is for the best. We leave early in the morning, Inquisitor.”

She took her leave then, looking over her shoulder at him just once as he watched her walk away. When she was out of sight, he slammed his fist on the stone wall and huffed out his frustration. 

He started to plot, then, how they might find a way to be together again. Truly alone, away from the constant responsibilities, from mind-reading spirit boys and conscientious night watchmen. He would find a way. He owed them both that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of got away from me, lengthwise. But I’m not really sorry. ;) Thanks for reading and for the kind feedback, as always!


	15. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reimagining the night in the grove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, aka The Smut That Was Promised. Plus, you know, feelings, etc.

The journey to the Western Approach was a long one. Owain and his companions rode clear across Orlais, stopping only when needed to resupply or rest their horses. As always, they camped out each night and spent evenings around the fire, sharing food, drink, and conversation. He would sit and listen to Alistair’s stories about the Fifth Blight or laugh at Hawke and Varric’s sharp banter. And endure Dorian’s knowing smirk every time he exchanged a look with Cassandra. 

They were always in close quarters on the road. Little time or space for private conversations, let alone anything more. He had to settle for a brush of his fingers against Cassandra’s as they sat next to each other by the fire, or a tap of her boot against his. A secret smile as their horses walked side by side. Once, that might have been enough for him, but that night on the battlements was seared in his memory and had left him hungry and greedy, desperate for more. 

Traveling did allow plenty of time for quiet reflection, and he was embarrassed to admit that the Seeker filled his thoughts in increasingly frequent and inappropriate ways. He _wanted_ Cassandra, and the ache of it had settled on him like an illness, like a fever. It had become part of him, a fact, a thing as real and tangible as the length of his nose or the number of toes on his feet. 

He did manage to kiss her, once, when they arrived at the Approach. She came to his tent to deliver a message from one of Skyhold’s birds, and he couldn't resist pulling her against him. She had gasped in surprise, a sound he'd swallowed as he brought their lips violently together and lost himself in her mouth. She had tasted better than he remembered, even after a long day of travel and with the ever-present dust that seemed to cover all surfaces in that Maker-forsaken desert. He could feel the hot metal of her sun-baked armor through his gloves, pressing against his chest as they embraced. It only made him miss her more when she smiled at him and pulled away. 

And then the ride home had been sober, after what they’d found in the desert. Grey Wardens using blood magic to bind demons from the Fade, duped by a Venatori Magister who certainly fit the moustache-twirling stereotype, as Dorian had put it. That ancient, honored organization, sworn to protect Thedas from the Blight, driven by fear to become Corypheus’s demon army and sacrificing friends and comrades to do it. It made him sick to his stomach, and they could not let it stand.

He thought about these things as he walked the path down from the castle gates to the small grove where he had once escaped the demands of Skyhold to practice his magic in solitude, where he had sat and told his story to Cassandra on that sunlit afternoon, months ago. It was early evening now. The red-orange rays of sunset were still coloring the sky when he left the keep, but here in the shadow of the mountain, the light was the deepening blue of dusk. 

They had returned from their journey less than a day ago, late last night. He was still exhausted from the travel. Today had been taken up with meetings in the war room as he and his advisors debated the best course of action regarding Magister Erimond and the Wardens, a discussion that culminated in a decision to bring the Inquisition’s army to bear on the Warden stronghold at Adamant. It was a major undertaking, involving massive troop mobilizations, siege machines, and supply chains, not to mention reconnaissance and leveraging their newly-built Orlesian alliances. It would keep all of them busy in the coming weeks. After all that, Owain finally managed to find a moment to himself and took the opportunity to find Cassandra and ask her to meet him here, outside the castle walls and away from prying eyes. 

He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his bath that afternoon. He’d put on a clean shirt and breeches and shaken out his coat. It was unbuttoned, as usual, a look Vivienne liked to call “slovenly,” but about which he could never bring himself to care. He doubted Cassandra did, anyway. 

He brought with him a wool blanket and his pack, which he’d emptied of its usual supplies and filled with new wax candles. He touched his coat pocket, where he carried the small book of poetry that Althea had bought for him. It was laying on his desk when he returned, with a simple note tucked in the front cover: “You owe me. -T.” Indeed, he thought, smiling to himself. He’d teach her all of his best chess tactics the next time they were both in Skyhold. 

As he reached the outskirts of the grove, he spotted a cluster of crystal grace and picked a few blossoms to give to Cassandra later. He lifted them to his nose and inhaled their sweet scent before making his way deeper into the trees. He paused when he reached the clearing, taking in the scene. It was unchanged from the last time he’d been here, other than what might be expected from the changing season. Still quiet, except for the chirring of insects in the grass, and still calm, sheltered from the mountain breezes that buffeted Skyhold. He looked up and could see the darkening sky through the breaks in the trees. Perhaps there would be stars there, later. 

He opened his pack and started taking out candles, setting them on the ground around the edges of the clearing. That done, he spread the blanket in the center and sat down to wait. 

He waited for a while, and still she did not show. Perhaps he should have been more specific about the time. He lay back on the blanket and pillowed his head on his hands. Doubt started to creep into his thoughts. What if she didn’t come? What if she didn’t want to? But no, the look in her eyes when he’d asked her was clear. She wanted this as much as he did. He just needed to be patient. It hadn’t been that long.

Laying there, his exhaustion caught up with him, and he could feel his eyelids growing heavy. Soon, the quiet calm of the grove lulled him to sleep.

\--

Owain startled awake to something solid pressing against his chest. There was a moment of panic when he realized it was a boot, but then he saw that it was Cassandra’s, and he smiled. She looked down at him with her arms crossed over her chest, frowning.

“Hello,” he said. 

“If I was an assassin, I would have slit your throat by now.”

“Then it’s a very good thing you’re not.” 

She snorted and lifted her foot, and he rolled out from under it into a sitting position. She knelt down on the blanket beside him. He searched around briefly for the crystal grace and presented it to her wordlessly, with nothing but a small smile on his lips. 

Their fingers brushed as she took the flowers from him, and he noticed that she wasn’t wearing gloves. Nor any armor at all for that matter, just a simple long tunic in soft, faded purple. The fabric flowed over the curves of her body, no longer caged in steel. His smile hitched a bit wider at that. 

She smiled back at him after lowering her head to sniff the flowers. “Did you bring me here just to give me more flowers?”

“No, not just that,” he replied. Then he raised his hand and lit the candles around the clearing with a pulse of his magic.

Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell slightly open as she turned to look at the golden light that now surrounded them. “You did all of this? For me?”

He turned and leaned one of his hands on the blanket behind her and reached out with the other to brush his knuckles lightly against her cheek. “You're always so surprised, Cassandra,” he said softly as his thumb grazed the sharp line of her jaw. “Is it still so impossible that I’d want to? That you deserve all this, and more?”

She just looked at him, her face full of disbelief and a touch of sadness. He leaned closer, until their foreheads were nearly touching. He searched her eyes for answers to his unspoken questions, and she responded with warmth and an almost imperceptible nod. 

He kissed her then, bringing their lips together slowly, gently. He drew a slick, lazy line across her lower lip and slid his tongue past hers, savoring the taste of her and letting his mouth silently say what his words could not. He kissed her not with the thrill of exploration from that night on the battlements, nor the searing desperation of that tent in the desert, but with the slow, patient control of a man confident that they had the whole night ahead of them. The grove was theirs. He was in no rush. 

Cassandra, however, had no such plans. Her initial shyness burned quickly away, leaving all impatience and passion and _demands_ in its stead. She brought her bare hands up to his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling their faces still closer. He let her tongue into his mouth, and she claimed it, licking and biting and sucking relentlessly. She snared one of his lips between hers and drew embarrassing sounds from the back of his throat. 

Then she gripped the supple leather of his coat and fell backwards onto the blanket, pulling him down after her. Surprised, he broke their kiss and caught himself, balancing on his knees with his hands splayed on either side of her head. She looked up at him with hooded hazel eyes, running them brazenly down his body, and caught her lower lip between her teeth. The sight of her under him nearly broke his resolve to draw this evening out. _Who was this woman, freed of her steel shell and stern looks and righteousness, tempting him like a desire demon? Maker, she would be his undoing._ And he would follow her gladly into the Void.

His heart thundering in his chest, Owain shifted his weight onto one elbow and lay on his side. She turned to face him, and he ran his free hand slowly up the side of her body, tracing a sinuous line from her thigh to her hip, from to her waist to her breast. 

“You’re not wearing armor tonight,” he observed with a smirk.

“No, I am not,” she replied, with a sly smile and a flick of her tongue across her parted lips. It was a challenge, a dare. And it fired his blood.

He threw his plans to the wind and pulled their bodies flush. He kissed her mouth, her jaw, her neck. He scraped his rough stubble against her soft skin and then soothed it with a swipe of his tongue. He filled his lungs with her clean Cassandra smell and treasured every soft sound that escaped on her breath. He reached up to cup her breast through her tunic, raking a nail across the pebbled tip through the rough fabric. She jerked at the sudden sensation, and he rocked his hips into her, just once, making her moan and squirm for more. Not to be outdone, she hooked a leg around his hips and dragged herself against the hardening length in his breeches, forcing an answering groan from his lips. 

With her leg around his waist, she shifted her weight and rolled them. He landed, breathless, on his back, with Cassandra straddling his hips. She leaned over him, her hands on his chest, lips capturing, conquering his. She kissed at the edge of his mouth and pushed her hands under his coat, letting them roam over whatever parts of him she could reach.

Laying on his back, he was distracted by the edge of something solid beneath him, jabbing uncomfortably at his spine, and he suddenly remembered the book in his pocket. He inhaled sharply at the realization and sat up, letting Cassandra slide down into his lap. He leaned back and struggled to free the volume from the folds of his coat, while she looked at him with confusion and annoyance in her expression. 

With one arm still curled about her waist, he held the book up in his free hand and grinned at her. She just narrowed her eyes at him, almost angry. “You’re going to _read? Now?_ ” 

“Your list was very specific, Cassandra. Flowers, candles, and--” He hissed as she squirmed impatiently in his lap, her legs still wrapped around his hips. “Poetry.” He cleared his throat and opened the book to a random poem, trying to ignore her best efforts to divert him from his task. 

He started reading. “On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath.”

She punched him lightly in the shoulder. “ _That’s_ the poem you chose?” He continued pointedly ignoring her.

“It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover’s kiss.”

She stopped moving and watched him, listening in spite of herself. 

“It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss.”

She snatched the book from him then and looked at the page. “Carmenum di Amatus,” she read, her brow arching, amused. “I thought this one was banned.”

She continued where he left off. “His lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer, which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night.”

His hands empty now, it was Owain’s turn to go on the offensive. He wandered away from her waist, down to grip her ass, up under her tunic to fill his palms with her breasts. He buried his face in her neck, kissing a teasing line across her collarbone and planting licks and bites under her chin, up the smooth column of her throat, making her gasp and halt in her reading. 

“His eyes reflect the heaven’s stars, the maker’s-- light. My body opens, filled and-- blessed, my spirit there, not merely-- housed in flesh but brought to life.” 

“Shall we read another?” he whispered into her skin from somewhere behind her ear. He could hear the book dropping to the ground beside them. Then he felt a sharp tug as she gripped his hair and tilted his head back to crush his lips under hers. 

She deepened the kiss and resumed her grinding in his lap, and he groaned into her mouth at the tantalizing friction. It took all of his focus to hold himself together, to not flip her on her back and ravish her right then, though he knew she would let him, would maybe even welcome it. He reminded himself that he was trying to make this last. 

But again, Cassandra seemed determined to thwart him. She straddled him still, her knees bent on either side of his hips. She pushed him backwards and smiled at him before grabbing the hem of her tunic and pulling it up and over her head. He leaned on his elbows and watched her, his eyelids heavy with lust and heat pooling in his core. _Maker, was his mouth open?_ He snapped it shut.

She was so beautiful. Her eyes glittered darkly and a slip of a smile curved her lips as she watched him watch her. Her olive skin glowed in the candlelight. Her breasts were utter perfection, their dark peaks calling for him to put his mouth on them. He told himself there would be time for that and tried to savor this moment, drinking in the sight of her. 

He sat up and leaned closer, letting his eyes and hands drift slowly, reverently, over her bare skin. Her chest rose and fell with shaky breaths as she watched him. His fingers traced a line from her collar to her navel. They sketched the curves of her breasts, trailed over the scars that marked her warrior’s body. He came to the newest one, an angry, jagged scar along her side. He put his hand on it and could feel the faint traces of his own magic resonating there, still. He looked up into her eyes and winced with regret. 

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I should have done a better job with this.”

She picked up his hand and kissed it before placing it on her breast. “You do not need to apologize, Owain. The alternative was death.”

The look on her face broke whatever was left of his resolve. He kissed her hard on the lips and then moved down to her breasts, kneading with his hands, rolling the tips between his fingers, kissing, sucking, worshipping with his tongue. She hummed and moaned and rocked her hips against him in response, which only made his desire burn brighter in turn. His cock strained painfully against his breeches, and his blood felt like it was on fire, no Seeker powers needed. 

He could feel her plucking at his coat and growled--actually _growled_ \--at the distraction, until he realized she was just trying to push it off his shoulders. Well, he supposed it was only fair. He looked at her with dangerous, predatory eyes and gulped in air as he shrugged out of it and then whipped his shirt over his head. He fell back on her with renewed fury even as her hands started exploring him, fingers and nails and palms running, scraping, squeezing at his back, his shoulders, his chest, the muscles of his stomach where they disappeared into his breeches. 

He groaned and broke off their kiss when he felt her fingers fumbling with the ties at his waist. He pushed her hands away and smirked at her, shaking his head slightly, as if to say, _no, not yet, you first._ He pushed her back onto the blanket and followed her down, kissing from her mouth to the space between her breasts, down the firm muscles of her belly, relishing each whimper and gasping breath that passed through her lips. 

He reached the top of her breeches and tugged hard at the laces, loosening them so he could work them over her hips and down her impossibly long legs. She helped him, kicking off her boots and lifting her hips off the ground, looking at him with lust-filled eyes, from beneath long, fluttering lashes. He smirked again when he realized that she hadn’t worn any smallclothes. _Maker, she was surprising._ Knowing that she had been sitting in his lap, rubbing against him this whole time with nothing on under the soft leather of her breeches… _Fuck._ He didn’t think it was possible for him to want her more. 

As he pulled her clothing away, he paused one more time to look at her, completely naked before him. Completely naked and completely ready for him. He could smell her arousal, and his cock throbbed in protest of its confines. He put it off for one more second, letting his eyes rove over her. Like everything else about Cassandra, her body was an incomprehensible mix of contradictions, of hard lines and soft curves, and he wanted to know each cord of solid muscle, to plot every lush slope and valley. He would map them with his hands, measure them with his tongue, dedicate his life to that study. 

But not right now. Right _now,_ she was impatient again, pure desire, grasping, moaning, pulling at him, wrapping her legs around his, drawing him down onto her, and he had not the strength to resist any longer. He kissed her breasts and reached down to push aside the wet-- _fuck,_ so _wet_ \--curls between her legs and stroke the bundle of nerves at the apex of her spread thighs. She gasped and bucked her hips in response, hands scrabbling desperately over his shoulders. 

He watched her, mesmerized, as he drew slow circles with his finger, reveling in how she responded to his touch and resolving to make her want him as badly as he wanted her. He paused, only to slip first one and then two fingers inside of her, making her jerk up against his hand as he continued to tease her with his thumb. The heat and clench of her around his fingers was almost unbearable, and he tried--but miserably failed--to avoid imagining how they would feel around another part of him. 

She looked up at him, eyelids fluttering, beseeching, begging. “Please, Owain,” she whispered thickly into his ear. “Please.” And that was _it._ He pulled his hand away and rolled off of her, kicking at his boots and tearing at the laces of his own breeches to finally relieve himself of their binds. 

He had no sooner kicked free of his clothes when Cassandra pounced on him, planting her knees astride his hips and pinning him to the ground with her hands on his chest. His cry of surprise turned into a deep groan as she grasped him, lined him up, and sank slowly, _scorchingly_ down his length with a sigh. They were both still for a moment, looking at each other as he filled her completely. The hot, tight, pulse of being inside of her exceeded even his wildest imaginings. 

Then she started to move, rolling her hips against him, and sparks pricked across his vision. His mind could think of nothing else, could barely even process the sensations. He reached up to squeeze her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingertips. He gripped her ass and her hips, pushing her down onto him, even as he bucked upwards to meet her. But mostly he watched her, watched her close her eyes and throw her head back in pleasure, watched her breasts bounce with the rhythm of their fucking. The slick clench of her around him and the sight of this beautiful, powerful woman riding him, grinding out her pleasure against his cock, nearly sent him over the edge. 

Her noises grew louder and more frantic, her movements more erratic, and he knew then that she must be close. He rubbed his thumb against that spot where their bodies met, and she gasped one more time before flying apart under his touch. He had never witnessed anything so beautiful. She stopped and shuddered, her arms shaking as they propped her up against his chest. He could feel her muscles fluttering and squeezing, and it reminded him of just how close he was himself. 

She collapsed over him, and he held her close, lifting her with him as he sat up. He pushed a hand roughly into her hair and tilted her head for a bruising, urgent kiss. Then he turned and laid her swiftly on the blanket. He covered her body with his and rocked into her as she looked at him with sated, languid eyes and wrapped her legs around him again, urging him on. 

It didn’t take long before, with a final thrust, he flung himself over the cliff after her. He buried his face in her shoulder as he finished, shuddering and whispering her name into her skin. She kissed his face and smoothed her hands over his back, running her calloused fingers up and down his spine until he was still. 

He rolled to the side, and they lay there, silent, looking at each other, catching their breath and basking in the glow of the candlelight and their love-making. If he had any sensible thoughts in that moment, they were composed of disbelief and wonder at this woman that lay next to him. This woman that he loved, that he desired beyond what he had ever thought possible, that maybe felt the same way about him. 

They stayed like that for some time, until their breathing slowed and the sweat dried from their bodies. A rare breeze blew through the grove, and Cassandra shivered slightly. With fire so close to the surface in him, he was rarely cold, but she must be. He looked around and found his coat at the edge of the blanket and spread it over them, pulling her close to let her share his heat. She rested her head against his arm, just as she had done that night in the Emprise du Lion. She smiled up at him with such warmth that he felt like his heart might burst.

He noticed the braid that crowned her head had come loose from its pins, and he reached up to pull it gently free. He found it oddly fascinating and silked it through his fingers as she watched him.

“They will say one of two things about me,” she said, breaking through the silence. “One, that I stood at the Inquisitor’s side, his lover and his protector, that it was meant to be. Or, that I was led astray from the path of faith by the wiles of a madman.” 

“In your defense, my wiles can be very effective,” he smirked, flicking his eyes to hers before continuing to stroke her dark hair. “And anyway, I don’t care what anyone else says. What does _Cassandra_ think?”

She paused a moment before answering. “I believe you were sent by the Maker to help us, even if you do not. I believe you will do great things and shape the world as we know it. I think you are capable of anything, and it frightens me. I have never known anything like it.”

He furrowed his brows and frowned at her. “So... you fear me? That’s how you feel?”

She shook her head. “No, I- That is not what I meant to say.” She sighed. “I- I am not good at this... I have only been with one other man in my life.”

“You mentioned him when we were in Crestwood. He was a mage.”

“Yes. His name was Regalyan. He… died at the Conclave.”

Ah. And now things made more sense. Her rage, her grief at him in the dungeon at Haven had been about more than losing Justinia. Owain couldn’t help being curious about this man, he of the piercing green eyes. What had he been like? Were they similar at all? And then he immediately shoved those thoughts aside. _Maker, what was it about human nature that made us need to know about the people who preceded us in our lovers’ hearts?_

“I’m sorry, Cassandra, truly. He must have been a great man to deserve you.”

“He was,” she said, blinking back tears. Her voice sounded like she was speaking around a lump in her throat. “What we had ended long ago, but we remained friends through the years. He was there to assist with the peace talks, to urge calm and sense among his fellow mages…” And then she inhaled a ragged breath, losing the battle against the tears in her eyes as they flowed down her cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” she continued a moment later. “I should not have brought this up here, not tonight, after all this.” She touched his chest and smiled sadly at him. “If you wanted sweetness and light, you chose the wrong woman.”

The sight of Cassandra Pentaghast, warrior and Seeker of Truth, _weeping_ affected him to his core. He touched his hand to her face and gently brushed away her tears with the pad of his thumb. 

“There is nothing to apologize for. You’ve had no time to grieve, with all we’ve been doing. He was your first love, and if he deserves these tears, you should shed them. Even with me.”

They were silent for a time, as the tears continued to flow, and he held her close to him, tucking her head under his chin. Then she pulled back to look at him and asked, “So was Althea your first love?” 

His eyebrows shot upwards with surprise. This was not a subject he expected to broach tonight. Not something he talked about, to anyone, lest it be used against him. Even Althea knew only the barest outline. He looked down at Cassandra and then away, turning this eyes up at the leafy canopy and deciding that she deserved nothing but honesty from him. 

“No,” he sighed. “There was someone else, when I was just an apprentice. She was a Templar, new to the Order. Ostwick was her first assignment. She was beautiful, kind, and good, and I lost my heart to her. I’m fairly certain she felt the same.”

“A Templar? I’m sure that did not end well.”

“No, it didn’t. The guilt ate at her. Then she was assigned to assist during my Harrowing, to strike me down if I- well, you know.” He paused a beat before continuing, staring up at the trees again. “It went fine, and I passed, but it wasn’t the same after that. She requested a transfer, and one day she was gone. I never saw her again. One more thing the Chantry took from me.” 

He remembered who he was speaking to, and it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t have added that last part.

“I lived in fear for _years_ after that, thinking it was my fault, or that I'd be punished, that maybe she’d confessed everything to someone before she left. But it seems that keeping our secret was her last gift to me.”

Cassandra touched his cheek. “I’m sorry, Owain. Even if it was against the rules, that doesn’t diminish what you felt. Or what you lost.” 

It felt strangely cathartic to hear her say that. He smiled sadly at her and touched his forehead to hers. “I guess we are neither of us sweetness and light here.”

She smiled back at him, eyes still shining with the threat of tears. He kissed her forehead and then her lips and held her close until they both drifted to sleep.

\--

They woke some time before dawn, with the sky beginning to grey overhead. The candles had long since burned out, and morning dew coated the grass around them. Owain pulled himself up reluctantly. Last night, it seemed like he had all the time in the world. This morning, it was nowhere near enough. 

They dressed in the dim light, and he indulged himself with one last look at Cassandra before she covered herself again. At least now he had his memories to think about, the next time he saw her back in her armor. He retrieved the little book of poetry and put it back in his pocket. He picked up the candle stubs and shook out the blanket, stuffing them back into his pack and slinging it over his shoulder. And like that, the evidence of their time there was erased.

They walked back to Skyhold, side by side, as the sun started to rise over the mountains. He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. Nothing needed to be said between them that wasn't already communicated in that touch. 

As they approached the gate, he paused, turning to her with a question on his face, ready to pull their hands apart if that was what she wanted. But she looked at him with warm resolve, that fierceness he so admired in her, and he beamed back at her. He twisted his fingers more tightly around hers and nodded to the guard as they passed, not caring who saw or what they would say. It didn’t matter anymore, because it was true now: the Inquisitor and the Seeker were together at last.


	16. Into the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, y'all.

He would remember that day in pieces. Images, snippets of sound. Fragments of thought and memory that would never fit together smoothly, even if he tried. 

Owain flattened himself against the wall beside the gates of Adamant. He could feel each blow of the battering ram rumbling through his bones. Arrows from the Grey Warden archers clattered against the stones underfoot. One rolled harmlessly against his boot. Restless, he shifted his weight and listened to the din of battle all around him: soldiers shouting on the walls, clashing metal, the whistle and boom of the Inquisition’s trebuchets bombarding the fortress defenses. 

One of Cullen’s lieutenants signalled to him as the gate began to splinter. Another good hit and they would be through. Owain stepped away from the wall and rolled his shoulders, gripping his staff in one hand and readying his barriers with the other. 

With the blunt snap of shattering wood, the doors creaked open, and Owain cast a great plume of flame into the opening. Fade-stepping through his own spell, he dropped a trio of fire mines on the first line of Wardens waiting on the other side, blasting them off their feet in a burst of flame. He could hear the cries of Cassandra, Blackwall, and the other Inquisition forces as they poured in behind him, and he moved to stand with Varric at the rear, casting the rest of his spells from a distance. 

Cullen found him when the skirmish ended. There was a weariness in the commander’s eyes, a tightness in his jaw as he sheathed his sword so they could speak. 

“Inquisitor,” he began. “Our men will buy you as much time as possible so you can reach Warden-Commander Clarel. She should be in the main hall, near the center of the fortress.”

“Thanks,” Owain replied, meeting his eyes. “Just keep our people alive, Cullen. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Cullen considered for a moment and then jerked his head toward the battlements. “Hawke is up on the walls. Our men are having trouble getting a foothold there. They could use some support.”

Owain nodded. “Done.”

Cullen clapped him on the shoulder before drawing his sword again and turning back to his troops. “Maker be with you, Trevelyan.”

\--

Their route through the fortress was fraught with Wardens, rogues and warriors, as well as mages with their bound demons in tow… or was it the other way around? It turned his stomach, seeing them in thrall to such evil. He imagined himself in their place, and it triggered some of his deepest, oldest fears. It was everything he’d been taught to resist, everything he'd battled since his magic manifested all those years ago. But he had no time to be afraid, not here.

They found Hawke and a small squad of Inquisition soldiers, pinned down by a pride demon and its entourage of lesser creatures. The warriors charged in on their flank, while Owain worked his way toward Hawke. 

As he approached, a terror demon leapt up from the floor, catching Hawke unaware and knocking her down with a rake of its claws. Owain hurried to her side and launched a stonefist at the demon, pushing it back and buying them valuable space. It advanced again with an ear-piercing shriek, but he stepped deftly aside and slashed at it with his staff, feeling the blade bite into boney flesh. He followed with a burst of fire that sent it collapsing in a heap of flame and acrid smoke, and then he turned to help Hawke to her feet. 

“Not bad for a Circle mage,” she smirked, standing and clutching a bleeding cut on her upper arm. 

Owain rolled his eyes. “Hawke. A delight, as always.”

They turned their attention to the pride demon, which had just replenished its guard and was whipping a lash of lightning at Cassandra and Alistair, who were dodging carefully, trying to weave close enough to slash at its legs. Blackwall was dealing with a shade several feet away, while Varric launched explosive bolts at a Warden mage near the stairs. 

The mages exchanged a look. The pride demon was clearly the biggest threat, and they needed to find a way to create an opening for the warriors. He nodded at Hawke, and she raced toward the demon, ice crystals gathering white in her hand. Owain cast a barrier over her and readied his next spell. 

Hawke appeared behind the demon and summoned a pillar of ice, freezing it momentarily, long enough for Owain to release his stonefist and shatter it, leaving it dazed. Cassandra and Alistair made the most of the opportunity, plunging their swords into the creature’s legs, bringing it to its knees while it roared in frustration. The Seeker struck the final blow, driving her blade deep into the demon’s neck until it stilled and dissolved into a pile of ash at her feet. 

“How many more are there?” Owain turned to Hawke and caught his breath in the ensuing calm. “Have they really managed to call this many demons from the Fade?” 

“A lot more,” Hawke replied grimly, swallowing a healing potion and binding a rag around the wound on her arm. “This was just the tail end of one group. The battlements are crawling with them. That’s what blood magic will get you these days.”

“Shit,” Owain breathed. “Where’s Clarel? We need to stop this at the source.”

Hawke nodded to the stairs at the far end of the wall. “The Wardens have been falling back that way.”

Owain set his jaw. “Then let’s go.”

\--

He would never forget the look on the old Warden’s face as Clarel drew the knife across his throat. Such willing sacrifice and blind trust, contrasted with the sadness in the Warden-Commander’s eyes as she murdered her old friend for a horrifying cause. Sadness that turned to fear and uncertainty as Owain and his companions rushed in to stop the blood magic ritual. 

The Wardens had opened a rift, which glowed and shimmered in their midst. He could see an enormous, terrifying demon just on the other side, and that glimpse alone told him they must, at all costs, prevent that thing from coming through. 

Magister Erimond sneered at them from Clarel’s side, and even when she saw reason and turned on him, he didn’t stop jeering at them and praising Corypheus, who he hailed as a god. Then the dragon came swooping down over the fortress, landing with a crash and a fall of broken stone. Its screech rent the air, and Owain’s stomach dropped into his boots as the sound seemed to echo through his body, calling up flashes of Haven and the twisted form of that would-be Tevinter deity. 

They ducked for cover as the creature sprayed a gout of red lyrium, melting through stone, metal, bodies, anything in its way. Erimond and Clarel ran for the walls, and Owain and his party followed in close pursuit. 

They fought off the demons that swarmed along their path. Even with the Wardens subdued, the army they had summoned from the Fade had taken on a life of its own. Cassandra bashed her shield into the face of a rage demon as it came barrelling toward them, while Owain darted around her and cast a spear of ice through its middle. Varric and Hawke covered their rear with arrows and chain lightning. Blackwall and Alastair guarded their flanks.

The dragon strafed overhead, its cries still sending chills down Owain’s spine. He saw it land hard on the battlements and crawl forward on its menacing claws, toward the corner of the fortress where Erimond and Clarel did battle.

The Warden-Commander was clearly the superior mage. She sent the Magister sprawling across the stones, his staff rolling uselessly to the side. But even she was no match for a lyrium dragon. It swatted her to the ground, and Owain winced because he knew how that felt. 

For all her irrational fear and misplaced trust, he had to say this about Clarel: she was no coward, in the end. He saw her face harden with determination as she cast one final blast of electricity at the dragon, sending it tumbling into the air and taking a good portion of the walls with it. He remembered the floor crumbling under his feet. Then falling, the crackling of his mark, and a flash of green light before his mind lost track of his senses. 

\--

Owain landed in a tangled heap of limbs, staff, and armor, though with less force than expected for such a long fall. Gravity itself seemed different here, wherever “here” was. 

The landscape around him was devoid of life, populated only by jagged rocks and spires, interspersed with pools of water that were calm as glass. To his left, a rough path was carved into a craggy rise in the land. To his right, a vast, waveless sea stretched to the horizon. The sky above him glowed the shade of green he had come to associate with rifts and the mark on his hand, which glowed brightly and pulsed with a dull pain when he looked down at it. 

He was in the Fade. He recognized it--barely--from his dreams, but something was different. He looked down at himself, touching a hand to his face, to his coat. Everything about him seemed normal. And he wasn’t alone. He looked up to see the rest of his party standing around him, as disoriented as he was. 

His first clue was the smell, the scent of smoke and sulfur and something faintly rotten in the air. He couldn’t remember the Fade ever having a smell, and that’s how he knew this wasn't a dream.

“This is the Fade,” Hawke said, coming to a similar conclusion, her eyes scanning the area around them. “But…”

“But we’re not dreaming,” Owain finished for her. “I think we're actually... _here_. I must have opened a rift, and we fell through it.”

“But that is impossible,” Cassandra said. “No one has walked physically in the Fade since…” 

“Since the Magisters entered the Golden City and created the Blight?” Owain continued. “Magisters like Corypheus? Perhaps we just did what he’s been trying to do all along.” He looked at the anchor again. It winked at him.

“That’s all very well and good,” Alistair said, leaning his hands on his knees and squinting at their surroundings. “But I’d like to know how we get _out_. We were just getting to the good part back at Adamant.”

Owain was at a loss for answers to that question, but Hawke pointed toward a swirl of green in the sky. 

“The rift the Wardens opened was in the main hall, which wasn't too far away,” she said. “Maybe that’s it there? Maybe we can use that to get back?”

That sounded as good an idea as anything else he could think of, so Owain shrugged his agreement, and they began picking their way across the alien landscape. 

“If this is what it’s like when you people dream, I can’t say we’re missing too much,” Varric quipped as he pulled his feet out of a shallow puddle, shaking off the water with disgust. 

“My dreams involve a lot more cheese,” Alistair replied. 

The Fade was no less strange than it was in Owain’s dreams, though instead of his own fears and wishes, he saw the evidence of other people’s, vignettes of almost ordinary objects- a table and chairs set for a meal, a scholar’s desk littered with books, a child’s bed and toys. But they saw no actual people or any living creatures at all, until they spotted a figure clad in luminous white, standing on a hill just ahead of them. As they approached, Owain saw Cassandra stop in her tracks. 

“Divine Justinia,” she said, her eyes wide with shock. “Most Holy.”

Owain snapped his head forward and saw that she was right. It was Justinia, or at least it looked like her. 

“It can’t be…” Hawke said, voice just above a whisper. “You perished at the Conclave.”

“In my experience, people don’t _glow_ ,” Alistair added, arching a brow suspiciously. “That’s something spirits do.”

Justinia simply nodded and greeted them all by name. 

“How could this be?” Cassandra said. “It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger, but...”

“Is it so hard to accept?” Justinia replied. “You walk in the Fade, and that is also impossible, no? I am here to help you, and that is what you need to know.”

“What is this place?” Owain asked, narrowing his eyes. “Why are we here, and how do we go back?”

“You are in the realm of the Nightmare,” she replied. “It is a fear demon, the memory you forget upon waking. It feeds on our terror, and it serves Corypheus. The demon army you fear in your world? He commands them.” She paused before continuing. “But you have been here before, have you not, Inquisitor?”

“I- I don’t remember,” he admitted with a slight shake of his head.

“That mark on your hand, the anchor. That is the key. That is what allows you to enter the Fade, and it is what Corypheus wants, to tear down the Veil and open the doors to the Black City. The Nightmare has taken your memories from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. That is how it gains strength, feeding on the worst of our fears, stealing our memories.”

“It takes away our worst memories?” Hawke interjected. “Wouldn’t some call that a blessing?”

“Perhaps, Champion, in the short term. But our memories are part of how we grow, how we learn. It is no gift to have them stolen from you.”

Justinia turned to Owain and went on. “The Nightmare has taken a piece of you, Inquisitor, and you must recover it. That is how you will escape this place.”

She pointed to the other side of the hill, where a small group of wraiths bobbed around a small pool. 

“There,” she said. “Those are your memories. You must retrieve them.”

Owain cast her a wary look and then turned to his companions, but they seemed just as lost. He sighed and pulled his staff from his back. It seemed he had no choice but to trust this woman, whoever or whatever she was. 

He ran down the hill toward the wraiths, slinging spells as he went. They put up little resistance, and as the last one faded into dust, he was overwhelmed by a sudden vision, by memory flooding back into his mind. 

He was at the Conclave, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, back when it was more temple than ashes. He had barged through a door to find the Divine surrounded by mages in Warden uniforms, being bound in some kind of spell or ritual. Corypheus was there, the ugly, malformed hulk of him, clutching an orb in his skeletal hand. Justinia shouted at him. Corypheus turned and the orb flew spinning out of his grasp. Instinctively, Owain scrambled to catch it, and when he picked it up, searing pain shot through his hand. He could hear the Magister’s howl of fury, and a white light drowned out everything else. 

He didn’t realize his eyes were screwed shut, but he pried them open and was back in the Fade, surrounded by his companions looking at him in shock. They must have seen that, too. 

“That was the Divine,” Hawke said, bristling with accusation as she turned toward Alistair. “Being held by Grey Warden mages.”

“I can’t believe…” the Warden began, frowning. “Corypheus must have stolen their minds. You’ve seen how that can happen. That’s the only possible explanation. Wardens would never serve the Blight.”

Hawke’s eyes flashed with anger. “All of this- the Conclave, Corypheus, the demon army. The Wardens started it all. Don’t even get me started on how much blood magic is going on here.”

“Oh, please,” Alistair shot back. “You’re one to talk…”

“Enough!” Owain snapped, slicing his hand through the air between them. “Save it for when we get out of here. You can bite each other’s heads off when we’re back on the right side of the Veil.”

Alistair snorted and threw his hands in the air dismissively as he turned away. Hawke crossed her arms over her chest and continued to glower at them all. 

Owain didn’t want to think about the part of the vision that bothered _him_ most- the confirmation that he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he had stumbled into the anchor, into this role as the Herald of Andraste, as the Inquisitor. Not chosen at all. He had suspected that all along, but for some reason, knowing it hurt anyway. 

Retrieving those memories seemed to alert the Nightmare to their presence, and the demon’s booming voice laughed at them as they made their way toward the rift. 

“Some foolish little boy comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders,” it said, and Owain knew it was speaking to him. “You should have left it where it lay, forgotten. You think the pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel! The only one that grows stronger from your fear is me.” 

“Did you really think you could succeed, Inquisitor? You’re a failure, a pretender, and you know it. _She_ will know it, soon enough, when it gets her killed. When all of your friends die for you and your silly cause.” 

Owain swallowed and grit his teeth. He said nothing and kept walking, twisting his staff blade viciously into any demons that crossed his path. 

Cassandra turned to him and saw the pain in his face. “Do not listen to its lies, Owain. It knows where to cut us.”

He nodded at her, but that didn’t make it easier to bear. 

“Cassandra! Your Inquisitor is a fraud,” the Nightmare continued. “Yet more evidence there is no Maker, and all of your precious faith--and all your love--will come to nothing.”

“Die in the void, demon!” she shouted back with a shake of her fist. 

The Nightmare made its way through the rest of his party, picking at their deepest fears, one by one. 

“Varric, once again, Hawke is in danger because of you. _You_ found the red lyrium. _You_ brought her here. How will you live with yourself if she doesn’t walk out?”

“Ah, Blackwall. There's nothing quite like a Grey Warden. And you are _nothing_ like a Grey Warden.”

“Did the king’s bastard think he could prove himself? Your whole life, you’ve left everything to more capable hands. The Archdemon, the throne of Ferelden… Who will you hide behind now?”

“Do you think it mattered, Hawke? You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god? Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about.”

They kept going, doing their best to ignore the demon’s taunts, following the form of Justinia as she led them across the rocky terrain. 

As they cleared another group of wraiths, another vision flooded into his mind. This time Owain was in the Fade, running frantically from a horde of oversized spiders. Justinia was with him, beckoning him on. Fear choked his heart as he climbed a broken stairway, as the creatures nipped at his heels. He paused before an archway that glowed with green light. He reached for the Divine, to pull her through with him, but she had fallen behind. “Go!” she said, pushing him forward before falling back into the rush of demons. Owain dove headfirst into the rift, and everything disappeared in another blinding flash. 

“It was you,” he said, when he returned to himself. “Everyone thought it was Andraste that saved me from the Fade, but it was you.”

Justinia nodded. 

“So I’m not the Herald of Andraste at all,” he said, putting the pieces together. “And Justinia died to save me. Here, in the Fade. So what are you, then? Are you her spirit? Have you been waiting here all this time to help us?”

“If that is the story you wish to tell yourself, it is not a bad one. But we must hurry. The Nightmare is near.” The image of the Divine faded away, replaced by a glowing spirit that flitted ahead of them, spurring them toward their goal. 

There was no time to think about it now. They rushed after her, emerging from a cavern to finally face the Nightmare itself, a massive, spider-like creature that towered above them. Owain recognized it as the demon he had glimpsed at Adamant, and sure enough, he could see the rift shimmering just beyond. 

Justinia, or the spirit that took her form, paused in front of them. 

“Tell Leliana, I’m sorry. I failed her, too.” Then it flew directly at the Nightmare, driving it back with a magic Owain had never seen before.

The Nightmare had left another demon in its place, a minion standing between them and the rift. It lunged at them with its spindly arms and summoned a swarm of spider-like fearlings that threatened to overwhelm them. 

They fell quickly into battle formation. The warriors circled the demon itself, striking at it with every opening. Hawke trapped it in a cage of lightning and hurled bolt after bolt in rapid succession. Varric kept his distance, shooting at the demon as it teleported itself around the battlefield, while Owain did his best to control the waves of fearlings and keep them off the warriors, congregating them with his rift magic, immolating them with his flames. 

It was a battle of attrition. He could see his companions tiring, drinking health potions, trying to keep their shields up, and he knew he had to end this for good. He shouted at Varric to cover him and drove his staff into the ground at his feet. He summoned every last shred of his mana and willpower, focusing it into his most powerful spell. When the first meteor fell from the sky, he knew it had worked. Winded, he picked up his staff and moved out of the way as flaming rock rained down on the field, leveling their enemies and reducing them to ash in a raging firestorm. 

He ran toward the rift, waving his companions on ahead of him. As he, Alistair, and Hawke moved to follow, the Nightmare suddenly reappeared, its dripping fangs and empty black eyes looming over their path. 

The three of them looked at each other and immediately understood the situation. One of them needed to stay, or all of them would die. 

Hawke spoke first. “You go. Corypheus is mine.”

“No,” Alistair shook his head. “You’re right. The Wardens started this. A Warden should finish it.”

“The Wardens need to rebuild,” Hawke argued back. “That’s your job.”

Then they both looked at him, and Owain had been Inquisitor long enough to know that such decisions always fell to him. The enormity of it almost tore his heart in two. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. 

“Hawke,” he said, his voice full of anguish. 

She returned his look with a nod and eyes that blazed with fierce defiance. “Apologize to Varric for me,” she said, before gripping her staff and sprinting toward the Nightmare. 

_Don’t think, just go._ Owain ran toward the rift with Alistair right behind him. He leapt through it and landed on... solid ground. Suddenly, impossibly, he was back at Adamant, back in the real world. He turned and reached his hand toward the rift and closed it with a burst of green light. 

He collapsed to his knees when it was done, his mind reeling with relief, with deferred pain and pent up thoughts. There was still no time to deal with that yet, because the crowd around him was cheering, celebrating what they saw as a victory. 

Cullen pushed through the crowd and helped him to his feet. “Well done, Inquisitor. The dragon flew off just after you disappeared. We’ve killed the remaining demons and captured Magister Erimond. The battle is over. All that remains is what to do with the Grey Wardens. The ones who were not corrupted helped us defeat the demons.”

Alistair staggered forward, and Owain looked him in the eyes but pitched his voice for all to hear. “The Grey Wardens will serve the Inquisition. Alistair believes you can be redeemed, and I trust his judgement. I will not turn away those who are willing to help.”

The Wardens and Inquisition soldiers cheered. He could see Blackwall nodding his approval in the crowd. Cassandra, however, furrowed her brows at him. 

Alistair nodded. “Very well. I will report to the leadership at Weisshaupt. Corypheus will not catch us with our trousers down again.” 

He continued in a lower voice, shaking his head. “What you did… You walked physically in the Fade and defeated a demon with the help of the dead Divine. I know what happened, but your followers will say their Inquisitor has performed another miracle.”

Owain took a deep breath, feeling the familiar burden of faith and hope on his shoulders again. “I’m just glad that some of us know the truth.” He clasped the man’s hand and smiled sadly. 

\--

It was still dark when Owain staggered toward his tent. He had no idea what time it was, other than somewhere between midnight and dawn. He paused outside, one hand on the canvas flap, dreading the emptiness that awaited him within. There was no Cassandra here. Whatever was between them was still new and had yet to extend to sleeping arrangements in camp. But the heaviness in his heart threatened to break him, and he knew he couldn’t face this night alone. So he pivoted and walked back toward the Seeker’s tent. 

In hindsight, perhaps he should have knocked, or whatever the equivalent was on a soft-sided tent. She was standing with her back to the entrance when he ducked inside. She glared over her shoulder at him, ready to rebuke an intruder, fingers frozen on the fastenings of her armor, but her expression softened when she recognized him, and she turned back to finish her task. He stood there, silent, watching her as she removed each piece and set it in a neat stack on the ground. 

It only took two steps to reach her. He wrapped his arms around her back and bent his head to bury his nose in the crook of her neck. He took a deep breath. When he exhaled, it came out as a shaky, jagged thing. She smelled like sweat and blood and sand. 

She turned in his arms and put a hand on his face, looking in his eyes. Could she read his despair, his brokenness there? Maybe, because her weary eyes turned a bit sadder, and she kissed him gently on his lips before lowering his arms to pull off his gloves. He stood there, numb and empty, and let her remove his armor piece by piece. She set his staff down next to her sword and shield, pulled his coat off his shoulders and folded it beside her plate. Lined their boots up near the entrance.

She looked him over, then grasped the edge of his shirt, tugging it upwards. He raised his arms to help her, and then she folded that, too, laying it on top of his coat in the corner. His limbs felt heavy and his mind foggy. Watching her was all he could do. She looked at him again and took his hand, leading him toward her bedroll, pulling him down next to her. She lay on her side, and he settled behind her, curling his arms around her again, her back snug to his bare chest. 

He sighed and let go of whatever it was still holding the pieces of himself together. His next breath was a single, broken sob into her shoulder. Her fingers gripped his arms, pulling him tight around her. She didn’t say anything, which was a relief, because he couldn’t find words to describe what he was feeling anyway. 

There was the crushing weight of loss. Of all those soldiers that fought for them, the Wardens who died needlessly. Hawke. And then there was his own role in it, the return of his memories from the Conclave, the final decision of who to leave in the Fade- a hero of the Fifth Blight or the Champion of Kirkwall? What _right_ did he have? Maker, the look on Varric’s face. Fear and doubt and pain clouded his mind. 

They lay there for some time, quiet, not sleeping but not talking either. After those hours in the Fade, it was enough just to hold her, to know that she was real and solid and alive. 

Owain surfaced from his thoughts to realize that Cassandra was pressing back on him, and his body was responding of its own accord. _How could he be hard at a time like this?_ She moved her bottom against him experimentally, and he sucked in a breath as their breeches rubbed together. She turned and looked over her shoulder at him, her expression a slight smile and a question, all at once. He groaned softly in response and could feel heat creeping into his gaze as he returned her look. 

She took it as permission to continue squirming in his lap, and something in him broke open at that. He put a hand on her hips to still them, so that _he_ could control their pace. He pressed himself roughly against her, as if to show her what she had done to him. She gasped and turned her head toward him again, and he leaned over to catch her mouth in a fierce, teeth-clashing kiss. He broke away and whispered her name into her ear before moving his lips down her neck, sucking and biting at the place where it met her shoulder. She whimpered and resisted his hold on her, doing her best to push herself onto him, her hand reaching to grasp at his arm, his hip, whatever she could reach.

He let her go, but only to move his hand up under her tunic, brushing lightly at the sides of her breasts and plucking at their hard tips with his fingers. His mouth still busy at her neck, he moved his hand downward, grazing her firm belly and dipping below the waistband of her breeches. 

“Maker, you’re wet for me,” he murmured into her skin, as he teased her with his fingers. She cried out and bucked against his hand, wanting more, trying to pull him deeper. She hooked her leg around his to give him better access. 

“Quiet,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear. “Do you want the whole camp to hear? Do you want everyone to know how badly the Seeker needs the Inquisitor’s cock right now?”

“Ugh.” She groaned and pulled his hand out of the way, fingers flying to the laces of her breeches and pushing and kicking them off her legs. He took the time to loosen the ties of his own pants and tugged them down just far enough to free himself from their binds. 

Clothing out of the way, he pulled her hips toward him and pushed into her with one hard thrust. She cried out again, and he clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. As arousing as it was to hear how much she wanted him, he really didn’t want the whole Inquisition to know what they were doing. 

He started moving then, taking her hard and fast, driven by this need, this uncaged thing that burned inside of him. They were not making love; they were _fucking._ His free hand teased her as he drove again and again into her warm, inviting body, relishing her tightness in this position. He sucked and bit at her earlobe, at the delicate skin on her neck. Perhaps he’d leave a mark, he thought, not caring either way, but the idea of it pushed his lust still higher. 

Her fingers clung to his hand as it covered her mouth, or they tangled in his hair as she reached for him, looking for purchase, some part of him to hold onto. She sank her teeth into his hand to silence her cries. He didn’t mind. The pain of it, like the pleasure of her, pierced the numbing fog in his brain like a ray of sun or a bolt of lightning, and maybe that’s what this was all about, anyway. 

She came quickly, her body stiffening, her muscles clenching around his cock. He held her firmly against him as he finished almost immediately after, burying his face in her neck, spending himself inside her. He lay back then and released her, exhausted and boneless, breathing hard and staring at the back of her head. 

His mind cleared, and he began to feel a twinge of guilt, embarrassment that perhaps he had let his desire get away from him. Maybe he had been too rough with her, too harsh. Bad habits from the Circle, he supposed, where sex was almost always fast, quiet, and secret. Time wasn’t a luxury he was used to having, but it was one he wanted to spend on her, like that night in the grove back at Skyhold. 

His worries melted away when she turned and faced him with a satisfied smile. She tipped his head toward hers and brought their lips together for a slow, relaxed kiss. She hummed with pleasure, pulling back and smiling again. _Maker, it still disarmed him, every single time._

He watched her as she trailed her fingers over the scars on his chest and shoulder, tracing the lines as they swirled over his skin. She followed them up his neck and to his cheek, resting her hand there. He blinked slowly and leaned into her touch. 

“Owain.” She made his name sound like a blessing. 

“I love you, Cassandra.” The words burst from him, and he realized it was the first time he had told her, even though he had known it for months now.

“And I love you,” she replied, soft eyes searching his face, voice full of a certainty he wasn’t sure he deserved. “I will not let Corypheus win. I will not let him take you from me.” 

There were so many things he wanted to talk about--to ask her, to ask himself--about what they had seen today. But he pushed all of that aside for now, because here, at least, was one thing he didn’t need to fight for. And it was the best thing. And for that, he was infinitely grateful. 

He sighed and pulled her close, her head pillowed on his shoulder. With his free hand, he conjured a tiny yellow-orange flame that flickered on his fingertips. He watched it until he fell asleep, when it danced on into his dreams, a point of light in his otherwise dark world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and for all the comments and kudos! *Mind boggles* 
> 
> They keep me going, because for real, who ever thought I'd be 70,000 words deep in this thing?? "Not I," said the cat...


	17. A Promise to Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lessons from Adamant.

Owain never thought he’d be so happy to see grass. They had reached the Exalted Plains, where it rolled out ahead of them, cool and green, promising an end to the baking heat and blowing sand that had been their constant companions for what felt like forever. 

He pushed his hood back and closed his eyes, feeling the breeze ruffle his hair as he slowed his horse to a walk. It was only the four of them. Cullen was following behind with most of the Inquisition’s army, but Owain was needed back at Skyhold. Though they had ridden hard the past few days, the journey had been somber, each of them wrapped in a cloak of their own thoughts. No matter how fast they travelled, they could not shake the ghosts of what had happened in the Fade. 

His eyes scanned the horizon for a likely campsite and settled on a line of trees running to the east. The land sloped gently towards it. A stream, perhaps? He turned to signal the others and urged his horse in that direction, pulling to a stop in a flat, grassy area where he dismounted and waited for his companions to catch up. 

“Seems like a decent place to stop for the night,” he said when they joined him.

“Stop?” Cassandra questioned. “But the sun is still high. We have hours of light before dusk.”

Owain shrugged. “I think we’ve all earned a bit of a break, don’t you? Surely we can spare an afternoon to celebrate getting out of the desert, if nothing else.”

“But, Skyhold…”

“Loosen up, Seeker,” Varric interjected. “We’ve got a head start anyway. Curly won’t beat us back if we take a few hours off.”

“I suppose a break wouldn’t hurt…” she conceded, brushing dust from her armor. 

Blackwall was already unloading his pack. 

Owain went to water their horses, and when he returned, the camp was set up but empty. Blackwall was the only one there, chopping up a large piece of driftwood he had hauled up the stream bank. 

“Where is everybody?” Owain asked. 

“Varric went for a walk,” the Warden replied, nodding toward a grove of trees on the far side of the stream. “Said he would set a few snares to catch us some dinner, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. His heart’s not been in it since Adamant.”

Since Hawke, he meant. 

“Mm,” Owain replied. What he wouldn’t give for some fresh meat, or anything other than the jerky and traveler’s bread that made up the bulk of their provisions on the road. “Do you think there’s any fish in that water?”

Blackwall turned and glanced over his shoulder at the shallow stream. “Might be,” he shrugged. “Though we’ve no nets or any way to catch them.”

Owain flexed his fingers in thought. “I might give it a try.”

The Warden raised his brows skeptically.

Owain smirked. “If I fail, you’ll just have to wait until Val Royeaux for a proper meal. Where’s Cassandra?”

Blackwall pointed downstream. “The Lady Seeker went that way. Took a book with her.”

Owain threw his pack in a tent and prepared to follow her. 

“You and Cassandra make an adorable couple, you know that?” Blackwall added, glancing at Owain and chuckling softly. Then he shook his head. “I never thought I would use the words ‘adorable’ and ‘Cassandra’ in the same sentence. But there it is. Love suits her.”

“What do you mean?” Owain asked, feeling the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“I’ve just never seen her smile so much. You two have each other, and that’s something. Especially in the times we’re in.”

“Warden Blackwall, don’t tell me you’re a secret romantic, too,” Owain said, leaning on his staff. “Though, come to think of it, I’ve seen those flowers on Josephine’s desk. Heard they were your doing.”

“Aye,” Blackwall nodded without looking up from his axe. “But nothing will come of it. We know what we are, and what we are is too different. Cherish what you have, Inquisitor.”

Owain smiled and left Blackwall to his work as he went in search of the Seeker. He followed the stream as it cut across the plain and found Cassandra sitting on a boulder near the water, where it widened into something of a shallow pool. Thin trees provided what could barely be called shade. She sat with a book in her lap and a quill in her hand, a bottle of ink at her side. She wasn’t reading, she was writing. 

She looked up and smiled as he approached. He stopped and leaned his elbows on the rock next to her. 

“Are you writing me a love poem? If so, I prefer the ones that rhyme.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head. “I couldn’t, not even if my life depended on it. Poetry takes finesse. It takes grace.”

“You don't think you have those things?” he replied, brows raised. He wished she could see herself as he did. 

She shook her head again.

“Well, I think you do.”

“You are biased.”

“That doesn’t make me wrong,” he smirked.

She squinted at him again and then looked away, sighing deeply. “Writing does not come naturally to me, as I’m certain you can imagine. But one day, historians will ask what happened at Adamant Fortress, in the Fade. I was there, I saw it with my own eyes, and it should be recorded.”

“That’s a very admirable idea.”

“Admirable, yes. But not easy. I still don’t know what to say about Justinia. I saw her there. I heard her voice. Yet, I cannot claim with certainty it was really her.”

“Do you think it was a ghost?” he suggested. “Or her memories? The remnants of her will? It could just be a spirit that took her form.”

“Yes, it could have been any of those things. The Chantry teaches us that the souls of the dead pass through the Fade, but no one knows for certain what happens when we die. The important thing is that it helped you, as Justinia herself would have.”

“Then maybe it doesn’t matter what she really was.”

“It matters to me, to what I must write,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “I must interpret what I saw, yet I am no priest, no philosopher.” She paused and looked down at the quill in her hand. “When I realized we were physically in the Fade, I was terrified, almost beyond reason. The last time such a thing happened, we created darkspawn. The world needs to know the truth this time, no legends lost to the ages.” 

Owain recalled the unsettling landscape of the Fade, the memories from the Conclave, the Nightmare’s words. It didn’t take much effort to summon them; these things were never far from his thoughts these days. 

“Does it bother you?” he asked, a question he had been turning over in his mind since that day. “To know that I’m not really chosen? That I’m not the Herald of Andraste after all?”

Cassandra studied him, her gaze as penetrating as ever. “How do you know you were not chosen?”

“I- What?” Owain started. He furrowed his brows at her. “How can you still think that? You saw what happened at the Conclave. All I did was walk in on Corypheus’s ritual and interrupt the spell. And Justinia was the one who helped me escape the Fade. It had nothing to do with Andraste at all.”

“The Maker works in many different ways, Owain,” she said. “Just because you did not have a vision or hear a voice telling you what to do does not mean he is not at work. Why did you feel the need to investigate those voices, to walk into that room? Why did you stop that ritual? Why _you_ at all?”

He was speechless for a moment. In all the times he had run through these mysteries, he had never thought about them that way. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “Chance, I suppose. Bad luck?”

“Where you see chance, I see the hand of the Maker. I believe you were brought to that place in that moment for a reason, and that few could have done what you have done.”

He looked at her in amazement. Her unwavering faith in him was staggering. And profoundly humbling. He blinked away and sighed.

“I feel like a fraud,” he confessed.

“You are not,” she said, her eyes burning with conviction. “You have proven yourself in the decisions you have made and the things you have accomplished. It is not what happened at the Conclave that made you the Inquisitor, Owain, it is what you have done since.”

He opened his mouth to reply but could think of nothing to say. He just frowned and stared at her. Maker, she was too _good_ for him. Why couldn’t he just believe her? It would make everything easier.

Cassandra bent over her writing again. Owain walked over to the stream and dug the tip of a boot into the loose gravel at the water’s edge. A few moments later, his eyes were drawn to the silver flash of fish darting in the shallows. Remembering his conversation with Blackwall, he took off his coat and pushed up his sleeves, then set to removing his boots and rolling up the bottom of his breeches.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra asked.

“Going to catch us some dinner.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“Just watch,” he said, throwing a smile over his shoulder. 

He waded out into the stream, his toes sinking into the fine silt along its bottom. The water felt good on his skin. He reached a large rock, climbed onto it, and crouched, waiting for the mud he had kicked up to settle again. 

The water cleared, and after a time, he spotted a fish a few feet from his position. Slowly, he stretched his arms out and dipped his hands into the stream. As his prey swam closer, he pulsed lightning from his palms. Nothing too strong, but enough to shock a creature of that size. The fish stiffened and floated motionless to the surface- dead, or at the very least, stunned.

“Hah! It worked!” he shouted in triumph. Then he splashed into the water after it, scrambling to collect his prize before the current carried it away. The fish was not large- only a bit longer than his hand, and his fingers circled it easily. Still, he wasn’t complaining. He held it up to show Cassandra. 

“Never let it be said that mages are useless in the wild,” he said smugly.

Cassandra had abandoned her pen and paper and stood on the bank for a closer look. Now she folded her arms across her chest and snorted. “You sound surprised. You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He shrugged, still grinning. “I was reasonably confident.”

“Is that your motto for everything? Inquisitor Trevelyan: ‘I was reasonably confident’?” 

He tossed the fish at her. She yelped and glared at him as it flopped against her boot and came to rest on the grass at her feet. He laughed and returned to his perch on the rock. 

“You are lucky I cannot reach you from here.” Cassandra huffed and went back to her writing, while Owain turned his attention to the water again. 

He caught four more before wading back to the bank. He lined them up on a rock and surveyed his catch with satisfaction. Then he drew his knife from his belt and set to cleaning them, slitting their bellies with the blade and washing them in the stream. 

Cassandra watched him curiously, coming to stand beside him as he worked. “Where did you learn how to do this? And don’t tell me you learned it at the Circle.”

He arched a brow at her. “Ostwick is on the Waking Sea, you know. You don’t grow up there without knowing your way around a fish.”

Owain finished his task and stooped to rinse his knife and his hands in the water. After replacing his knife in its sheath and wiping his hands on his shirt, he turned to Cassandra, who was standing behind him, still regarding him with a bit of awe. He answered her look with a sly smile.

Then he curled his arms around her waist and drew her close, feeling the heat of her body under his still damp hands. She tilted her head, and he ghosted his lips down the side of her neck. She shivered beneath his touch, and it made his heart beat faster in his chest. 

“You smell terrible,” she said, in her matter-of-fact way.

“Mm. _You_ smell wonderful.” He murmured the words low against her skin. “Do you think anyone will mind if I have you right here?”

“ _I_ will. Owain, there is a pile of dead fish by your feet.”

“You’re going to make me regret catching them, Cassandra.”

She made a disgusted sound and punched him in the shoulder as she pulled away. He just laughed again as he scooped up his catch, and they walked back to camp. 

\--

They sat around the fire, satisfied after the best meal they had had in more than a week. Owain passed his bottle of whiskey around the circle. 

He turned to Varric, who had been uncharacteristically quiet all evening. He knew why, but it was time they talked about it. 

“I’m sorry, Varric,” he said. “About Hawke. I wish things could have been different.”

The dwarf sighed and sipped at his drink. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Ser Owain. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.” He glanced at Cassandra. “Or even you, Seeker.” She pressed her lips together but said nothing. 

Varric shook his head. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me for dragging her back into this mess. But honestly, I don’t think anything could have kept Hawke away once she found out Corypheus was behind it. He was unfinished business to her.” 

He looked at Owain. “I bet she argued pretty hard that she should be the one to stay in the Fade.”

Owain lowered his head in assent, remembering her fierce will and courage, even in the face of certain death. 

Varric breathed out a laugh. “Of course she did.”

“She was a hero, Varric,” Owain said. “She saved me and Alistair. All of us, really. If that Nightmare had come through the rift, we’d all be dead.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve written enough stories to know how things end for heroes.” Varric sighed again and held out his cup for more whiskey, which Owain happily supplied.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a merchant guild hit list?” Varric asked, his voice distant, deep in a memory. “Hawke’s uncle got into an investment scheme with a couple of merchant caste businessmen. They took a lot of people’s coin to arrange the import of wandering hills from the Anderfels. A delicacy, I’m told. Their weird foreign foodstuffs arrived alive, and one of them, true to its name, wandered off in the middle of the night. 

“The guild traced the shipments to Hawke’s uncle. But as usual, he was so far in debt he couldn’t see daylight. So they went after Hawke instead. They sent guys from the local Carta to Hawke’s estate one night. Five big dusters, armed to the teeth. They kick in the door, and Hawke yells, ‘You’re just in time!’ and drags them over to a game of Wicked Grace. 

“They played two hands of cards before the city guard showed up to take them away. A couple of them even became regulars in our weekly game. Hawke just had that effect on people.”

Owain smiled and raised his cup to the Champion of Kirkwall.

Varric threw back the rest of his whiskey and pushed himself to his feet. “Thanks. I’ve always wanted to tell that one.” He handed his cup to Owain. “I think I’m going to call it a night. I’ve got some letters to finish before we reach Val Royeaux.”

He bid them goodnight and ducked into the tent he was sharing with Blackwall. It lit up with candlelight a moment later. 

Cassandra rose next and declared that she, too, was going to bed. Owain had first watch that night and regretted it as he watched her hips sway toward their tent. He thought about following her, about what might transpire if he did. But he didn’t. Instead, he poured himself another drink and settled himself on the ground. 

Blackwall moved around the fire to sit beside him. “Do you mind if I watch with you for a bit, Trevelyan?” he asked, nodding toward his tent. “I think Master Varric could use the solitude right now.”

“Not at all,” Owain replied. They sat in easy silence for a while, listening to the frogs call to each other in the mud and watching the fire send sparks into the night sky. 

“Someone I knew once described Adamant to me,” Blackwall began, still staring into the flames. Owain turned his head to listen. “‘Adamant is and always will be the Order,’ he said. The guardian at the edge of the abyss, the lone soul that stares into oblivion and doesn’t waver. That’s what Warden-Commander Clarel tried to be. What they all tried to be. They went to their deaths willingly, and Corypheus twisted their sacrifice to make it his own.” 

“We saved as many Wardens as we could,” Owain said, sitting up straighter and propping his arms on his knees. “They’re part of the Inquisition now.”

“And for that I’m thankful,” Blackwall agreed. “But we couldn’t save all of them. And they died thinking they were doing something good. Even Clarel’s intentions were righteous. Her desire to protect was so great that it led her astray. It’s not right. To want to do good, to _be_ good, and have that turned against you.”

“But you never wavered. You and Alistair, you weren’t swayed by the false Calling. You didn’t fall for Corypheus’s lies.”

Blackwall shifted and stared into his cup, quiet for a moment. “It’s not the armor or the trappings of the Order that make us what we are. It’s not the joining. At the heart of it, all a Warden is is a promise to protect others, even at the cost of your own life.”

And hadn’t he done that, many times over? Owain had never met a man so bent on doing the right thing. “You’re a good man, Blackwall,” he said, quietly.

The Warden scoffed and shook his head. 

“When I was a boy, there were these urchins that roamed the streets near my father’s house. One day they found a dog, a wretched little thing. They caught it, tied a rope around its neck and strung it up. And do you know what I did?”

“You saved it? Cut it down?” 

“I did nothing,” Blackwall said with disgust. “Not a damn thing. I saw it suffering, and I just went back inside and closed the door.”

“You were a child,” Owain said, wondering why Blackwall was castigating himself for something that happened so long ago. “Surely we’ve all done things we regret?” He certainly had.

“I could have done something or told someone. But I didn’t. I just pretended it wasn’t happening. Don’t you see? That’s our problem. It’s not just about what happened back then. There’s always some dog out there, some fucking mongrel who can’t stay away. We could make the world better, it’s just easier to shut our eyes.”

Owain furrowed his brows and studied the Warden’s face. “When we first met, you were saving peasants from demons and outlaws. You’re not a man that shuts his eyes.”

“Am I?” Blackwall argued, his voice edged with anger now. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re the Inquisitor. You make saving the world look easy. The rest of us can only dream of matching what you’ve done.”

There was so much Owain could have said to that, if he could find the words. About how it wasn’t as easy as it looked. About how the mantle of Inquisitor was something he himself was struggling to live up to. How the weight of it bowed his shoulders and scarred his heart. When would he become what he was pretending to be?

Varric’s light went out. Blackwall heaved himself to his feet and took himself to bed, leaving Owain to finish the watch, alone with his own thoughts. 

\--

They reached Val Royeaux two days later. After securing their lodgings for the evening, they split up to take care of business around the city. Varric went to post his letters, Blackwall to purchase supplies for the onward journey. Owain and Cassandra went to meet with the Inquisition agents stationed there. 

They emerged from their meeting to a large crowd gathering in the square. With a glance at Cassandra, Owain pushed forward to investigate. 

It was an execution. A thin, tired-looking man stood on the gallows, his hands tied behind his back, a noose hanging loosely about his neck. The masked hangman stood on the platform behind him, ready to earn his pay. Both of them waited for the bailiff beside them to finish reading the charges, while the crowd jostled and buzzed with excitement. 

“Cyril Mornay,” read the official on the platform. “For your crimes against the Empire of Orlais, for the murders of General Vincent Callier, Lady Lorette Callier, their four children, and their retainers, you are sentenced to be hanged from the neck until dead. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

The accused said nothing. Judging from his blank stare, he seemed to barely register the words.

“Stop.” A gruff voice rang out, and all eyes were drawn to the broad, bearded man who stepped onto the platform clad in Grey Warden armor. 

It was Blackwall. Owain could hear Cassandra gasp next to him. He cursed under his breath. What was the man doing up there?

“This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him,” Blackwall declared, his voice loud and resolute. “Orders were given, and he followed them, like any good soldier. He should not die for that mistake.”

The Orlesian official scoffed. “And what evidence do you have for these claims? Where is the man who gave the orders?”

“I am that man. My name is Thom Rainier, and I am responsible for the murders of the Calliers. The crime is mine.”

The crowd exploded with noise. Owain stood frozen to the spot, unable to process what had just happened. Guardsmen seized Blackwall--no, Rainier--by the arms and shoved him roughly off the platform. He put up no resistance. 

Cassandra touched his elbow, rousing him from his paralysis. She nodded at the Inquisition agent, a slight elven woman in a scout uniform, who was beckoning them to follow. 

The agent led them to the prison, where Owain descended a set of narrow steps leading to the underground cells. He walked slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dim. The air was dank and sour, and his boots splashed in a puddle of unidentifiable liquid. 

Rainier was in the very last cell, slumped against the wall in the corner. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he croaked. “You should go. Leave me here to rot.”

Owain ignored his words and leaned against the cold metal bars. “Is it true?” he asked, simply.

“It’s all true,” Rainier replied, his voice gruff. “I was a captain in the Orlesian army. Well regarded, respected. But it wasn’t enough. A noble offered me gold to assassinate General Callier, and I took it. I gave the order to kill him and his entourage. I lied to my men about what they were doing. And when it came to light, I ran. And those men, my men, paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man.”

Part of Owain had hoped it wasn’t true. It seemed so impossible, that the man who had done _that_ could be the man he knew. Or thought he knew. His stomach twisted with revulsion. 

“And Blackwall?” he pushed on. “The real one?”

“Dead,” said Rainier, pressing the back of his head against the stone wall and staring up at the ceiling. “We met when I was on the run. He wanted me for the Wardens. But there was an ambush. Darkspawn. He was killed. I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. But a good man, like him, wouldn’t have let another man die in his place.”

“The bailiff said Callier was traveling with his family, his wife and children. You had them all slaughtered?”

Rainier’s voice was strained now, laced with pain. “I didn’t know he would be with his family. I assumed only soldiers, armed guards. But my men had seen battle. They knew how war is waged. Like it or not, it’s names that carry weight in this world. Bloodlines. Heirs. No one likes to talk about it, but this is how the Great Game is really played.” 

Owain wiped a hand down his face and exhaled a deep sigh. “There was no need,” he said quietly. 

“True,” Rainier acknowledged. “There was no need for any of what I did.” 

“None of your men questioned what you were doing?

“I told them it was an important mission, and they trusted me, just like your men trust you.”

“My men follow me because they believe in our cause.”

“They serve your cause because you tell them to,” Rainier retorted, turning to look Owain in the eyes. “But they follow _you._ You lead them, whether you believe it or not. My men trusted me, and I betrayed them. This is what I am, Inquisitor. A murderer, a traitor. A monster.”

Owain crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at the man he knew as Warden Blackwall. He refused to leave it like that. Rainier was doing his best to bury himself here, but for some reason, Owain couldn’t let him go. There was more to him than that. There had to be. 

“Would a monster have given himself up?” he shot back. “Or done what you’ve done for the Inquisition? What happened to all your talk about being good? About righteous intentions? Was that a lie, too?” 

Rainier just sat with his head in his hands. 

“I think somewhere along the line you stopped pretending. It’s not just our past that defines us, it’s what we do about it now.” Cassandra’s words echoed in his thoughts. 

“Don’t talk about _us_ like we’re the same,” Rainier spat, scowling up at him. “We are _not_ the same.”

Owain’s expression hardened then, and something clicked into place in the depths of his mind. “You’re right,” he said, biting off the words. “We’re not.” Because he was the Inquisitor. Because there were people he was responsible for, even the guilty, broken man in front of him. 

He turned to his agent beside him. “Who do I need to talk to to get him out of there?”

“For a crime of this profile, the Minister of Justice, perhaps, or possibly the imperial court itself...” 

“Get me a meeting,” he said, his tone all steel. 

“But- but Inquisitor!” she sputtered. “The favors that will be required, the cost. It will be extravagant!”

Owain glared at her. What was the point of influence if he couldn’t spend it? His fury crackled in the air around him.

“Do it,” he said coldly, speaking to the woman but looking at Rainier. “I don’t care what he calls himself. This man belongs to the Inquisition. I want him remanded to Skyhold for judgement.”

The elf hurried to obey, not daring to argue a second time. Owain threw a last hard look at the man in the cell, whose face was a mask of wretched misery and defiance. Then he turned and stalked back toward the stairs without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to distract myself from actually writing this chapter by thinking about events that are coming later, but on the plus side, that means I've mapped out where this is all headed. So, wooooo! Let's go!


	18. Seeking the Seekers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Searching for truth, finding hope for the future.

“There you go again, Seeker, getting an eyeful of Inquisibutt.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I see where your eyes are. He’s not just an object to quench your desires, you know. You should make sure to undress him with your eyes _respectfully_.”

They were hiking through the wilds of Ferelden on their way to Caer Oswin, following a wooded ridge that ran parallel to the main road. They had moved off the road for the last mile or two, wary of alerting any hostile forces to their presence. Owain turned away from Dorian’s musings on the utility of mana-charged barriers against physical projectiles to look behind him and cock an eyebrow at Bull and Cassandra.

“What are you two talking about?” he asked.

“Your body,” Iron Bull replied simply. “Well, I’m talking about it. Cassandra’s just glaring and turning red.”

“Then for the record,” Owain said, twinkling his eyes at the Seeker, “There’s no need to be _terribly_ respectful. Or to use only your eyes, for that matter.”

Bull laughed. “That’s the spirit. Go wild, you two!”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “You certainly take your own advice. Need I remind you that our tents are not soundproof?”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Bull retorted, wiggling his eyebrows. “That almost sounds like a challenge, though, Cass. We could turn this into a competition...”

“Do _not_ bring me into this!” Dorian huffed from Owain's side. He could practically hear Dorian’s eyeballs rolling in their sockets.

Owain opened his mouth to respond but stopped short at the sound of hooves pounding the packed dirt road below. He signalled to the others, and they fell silent, moving to the top of the ridge for a better look. 

It was a single rider, clad in heavy armor, Templar heraldry emblazoned on his shield and plate. Heading north, just like they were, on the road to Caer Oswin. Owain doubted it was a coincidence. He threw a quick glance at Cassandra, whose face looked grave. At least they appeared to be on the right track. 

The rest of the journey was quiet, all levity dissipated into the cold, damp air. The rider had reminded them of their mission and what almost certainly awaited them at the end of it: battle, death, and more evidence of Corypheus upending the order of the world. 

It started to drizzle. Not true rain, but enough to make the leaves slick underfoot and leave beads of silver in their hair and eyelashes. Owain didn’t bother covering his head. The wet cold had already seeped into his clothes, and besides, there was something he found wild and invigorating about it.

He had returned to Skyhold with Cassandra and Varric less than a week ago. Leliana’s agents had finally made a breakthrough on the whereabouts of the Seekers, and Cassandra had been eager to follow up on their leads. It seemed an opportune time, anyway. Cullen had yet to return with the Inquisition’s troops, and Josephine was still negotiating Blackwall’s release from Orlais. 

There was a great deal of fretting and hand-wringing from Josie on this last point, though Owain could never be sure how much of it was due to the tremendous outlay of favors and influence it was costing them and how much was caused by the shocking revelations about Blackwall himself. Thinking about Rainier still felt like a punch to the gut. He did not envy the ambassador’s task. But then again, he never did.

The fate of the Seekers was a great mystery, one Cassandra had been trying to solve ever since Haven. No one had heard anything from Lord Seeker Lucius since their confrontation in Val Royeaux, and they had never seen any Seekers among the ranks of the Red Templars. The Seekers had started the war with the mages and were supposed to police the Templars. With everything going on, how could such a powerful organization suddenly go silent? 

It was baffling even at its most innocuous, and the truth was likely to be far more menacing. He and Cassandra had discussed various theories in their tent last night. Surely Corypheus had something to do with this, but what? And why? Seekers did not use regular lyrium and were resistant to the effects of the red variety, which would make them more difficult to corrupt than the Templars. Without that leash, was it possible to control them at all? Or had Corypheus simply wiped out the entire order? Cassandra assured Owain that would have been no easy task, which implied there was something else at work here, either great power or great treachery. 

They would soon find out, Owain thought, glancing again at Cassandra as they reached the road to the keep. Caer Oswin was the seat of Bann Loren, a rather ordinary Ferelden noble known for being pious and little else, according to Leliana’s reports. How did a man like that get mixed up in the schemes of an ancient Tevinter magister? Sillier things had happened, Owain reminded himself. Like an Ostwick Circle enchanter being named the Inquisitor. 

The castle sat on a hill, and the grounds were oddly unguarded. They reached the keep itself with no trouble at all. They circled the structure and targeted an entrance at the rear, cut into the grade of the land. 

Owain tried the door, and it was locked, because nothing in his life was ever that easy. He nodded at Iron Bull, who stepped up with his axe and reduced the door to splinters with a single swing. Cassandra and her shield led the way into a short passageway, with Owain following closely behind. 

They found themselves in a small antechamber of sorts. It was occupied by one very surprised-looking soldier in heavy, Templar-esque armor. He charged wildly at Cassandra and quickly met his end at the point of her blade. 

The noise of it alerted the men in the adjoining room, a wider dungeon lined with dark, barred cells. There were four of them in total, wearing armor like the unlucky fellow in the first room. They had their shields and swords up as Owain and his party entered. One of them spotted the eye on Cassandra’s breastplate and held his weapon aloft. 

“Death to the Seekers!” he shouted, before rushing toward them. 

Owain knocked him off his feet with a stonefist, while Cassandra and Iron Bull came in swinging, bringing sword and axe crashing down on shields and steel plate. Moving carefully in the small space, Owain fade-stepped behind their line and set his fire mines, rushing out of the way as Dorian’s horror spells sent their enemies fleeing right into the trap with lethal results. 

They searched the room afterwards. Cassandra stooped to pick up a scrap of paper. After reading it, she frowned and passed it to Owain. 

“What’s this Order of Fiery Promise?” he asked, after scanning the parts that were legible. 

Cassandra sighed, straightening and pushing stray hairs out of her eyes with her gloved fingers. “It is a cult with… strange beliefs about Seekers. They believe _they_ are the true Seekers, the only righteous ones. They say we robbed them of their powers long ago, preventing them from ending the world.” 

“Ending the world?” Dorian interjected with an eyebrow arched. “What will the fanatics of Thedas come up with next?”

“The only way to truly rid the world of evil, in their eyes,” Cassandra continued. “‘The world will be reborn a paradise’- that is what they believe. Utter rubbish.” 

“There seems to be an obvious solution here,” Owain said. “Why haven’t the Seekers dealt with them?” 

“We have,” she sighed again. “Several times. They just reappear after a time, like weeds. Nobody knows how.”

In one of the cells along the walls, they found a dead Seeker. His body was thin in his armor and bore the marks of physical torture. It did not bode well. 

“The Promisers will pay for this,” Cassandra seethed through gritted teeth. “I still do not understand how the Seekers ended up here. Or what any of this has to do with Corypheus.”

Owain had no answers for her, so they kept going. They worked their way up through the keep, reaching a central courtyard where the cultists seemed to be making a stand. He peered out the door and counted over a dozen men, with still more emerging from other parts of the castle. He exhaled a deep breath and counted his stock of healing potions, handing half of them to Dorian. 

Then he nodded to Bull, who kicked open the door and let out a chilling war cry, charging out into the yard at full speed. Dorian cursed under his breath and hurried after him, scrambling to get their barriers in place before they reached the enemy. 

Owain glanced at Cassandra, who gave him a quick nod of steely composure and tightened her hold on her shield. She led the way, and together they stepped out through the doorway. 

They worked in pairs, Bull and Dorian taking the enemies on the left, and Cassandra and Owain handling the ones on the right. It was still drizzling outside, and Owain decided to use the added moisture to his advantage, switching to ice and lightning over his favored fire element. 

He cast a pull of the abyss as Cassandra charged into a group of Promisers. Then he cloaked himself in ice armor and fade-stepped toward her as she engaged the first of them. The metallic clash of swords and shields rang in his ears as he reappeared just behind her. 

While the Seeker held the line against the enemies in front of them, he cast a wall of ice to cover their backs and scanned the field for ranged enemies. Spying a pair of archers on one of the walls overlooking the courtyard, he called down a bolt of chain lightning that sent them twitching and convulsing to the ground, the deadly voltage ripping all the more easily through their wet armor and clothing.

“Owain!” Cassandra shouted at him, and he whirled to find two knights bearing down on their flank. He failed to dodge in time, and one of them managed to land a blow on Owain’s shoulder. His armor caught the brunt of the impact, but still he staggered back from the force of it. Recovering, he spun his staff and focused his mana on drawing water from the air to snare his enemies’ legs in a thick, paralyzing layer of ice. Disoriented by the sudden lack of mobility, their eyes widened in fear, and they flailed their weapons uselessly at Owain until his staff blade found unprotected skin at the edge of a helmet, or Cassandra’s sword exploited a gap in their breastplate. 

They dispatched the rest of their foes in similar fashion. The Promisers might have been dressed like Templars and pretended to be Seekers, but Owain silently thanked the Maker that they were neither. Not having to deal with anti-magic abilities or spell purges made this an easier fight than it could have been. 

Owain leaned heavily on his staff and rubbed his bruised shoulder, catching his breath as their enemies lay fallen. Bull took care of the last of the Promisers, while the ghostly blue forms of Dorian’s marked spirits finished their work and faded into the mist. Necromancy was a school of magic he would never quite understand, Owain observed absently.

Cassandra sheathed her sword and started searching the bodies, looking for more clues that might explain how or why the Seekers had ended up in the clutches of an obscure cult in this quiet corner of Ferelden. Her efforts unearthed a folded parchment on one of the Promisers, and she stood reading it before addressing Owain. 

“It’s a letter signed by Samson, commander of the Red Templars. As we thought, the Seekers proved resistant to the red lyrium corruption, and they were of no use to Corypheus. So he turned them over to the Order of the Fiery Promise.” 

Samson again. Owain recalled his conversation with Cullen about the Red Templar general and mentally added this to his list of crimes. 

“That still doesn’t explain how they ended up here or what’s been done with them. Surely the Seekers wouldn’t be so easy to round up and capture, right?”

Cassandra shook her head. “No. Something must have lured them here, and it must have been compelling. I just cannot imagine what.”

They moved on to search the rest of the keep, turning up the remains of a few more Seekers but no further explanations. Cassandra seemed deep in thought, her brow creased and mouth pulled in a deep frown. Owain touched her arm lightly as they picked their way through the ruins of some kind of assembly hall. 

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, his eyes searching hers. “You seem worried.”

“I am,” she replied, meeting his gaze. “This does not look good. I may have disagreed with them, but I cannot abandon them. The Seekers are my family.”

“We’ll find out what happened, Cassandra,” he said, knowing his words were scant reassurance. “There must be answers here somewhere.”

She just nodded and turned her eyes back to their path. “I hope so.”

At the base of some stairs, they found a young Seeker slumped against the stone step, coughing and struggling for breath. Unlike the others they had found, he was alive, though just barely, it seemed. As they drew closer, Cassandra’s face lit with recognition, and she hurried forward, dropping to her knees at the man’s side. 

“Daniel!” she gasped, her voice colored by conflicting emotion--joy at seeing a friend alive and horror at the clear hopelessness of his condition. “Daniel, can you hear me?”

“Cassandra,” the man croaked, barely able to get the words out between fits of dry coughing. “It- it’s you. You’re alive.”

“As are you. I’m so glad I found you.”

“Cassandra, it's the Lord Seeker. You have to find him, stop him. Lucius betrayed us. He sent us here to die, one by one. An important mission, he said. Lies.”

“Lucius?” Owain said, crouching next to Cassandra. Close up, the young Seeker looked even worse than he had at first, his face thin and ashen, veins dark and protruding thickly beneath his skin, eyes hollowed and red with blood. “But how can that be? We saw him in Val Royeaux, with the Templars.”

“That wasn’t him,” Daniel replied, coughing again. “It was a demon, masquerading. He allowed it, let himself be used. So he could be here.”

Cassandra and Owain exchanged deeply troubled looks. Here was the missing piece of the truth. “We will find him, Daniel,” Cassandra said. “We will put an end to this.”

She started to rise, but Daniel clutched at her hand. “Wait! Don’t- you can’t leave me like this.” Then he dissolved into another fit of coughing. 

“What have they done to you?” she asked. 

“They- they put a demon inside me. It’s tearing me up.”

“You can’t be possessed,” she frowned. “That’s impossible.”

“Not possessed. They- they fed me things. I can feel it growing.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Owain asked, glancing at Cassandra and then to Dorian standing over her shoulder. 

“I doubt it,” the Tevinter replied, sadly. “Not if he’s ingested it, as he says.”

Daniel shook his head weakly in agreement. “Only one thing you can do. Don’t let me die like this. Please.”

Cassandra’s eyes went wide with sorrow, even as her jaw tightened with resolve. “You should have left with me, Daniel,” she said quietly. “You didn’t believe in the war any more than I did.”

He grimaced and gave a short laugh that ended as a cough. “You know me. I wanted that promotion.”

She stood and drew her sword as Owain and Dorian stepped back. 

“Go to the Maker’s side, Daniel. You will be welcomed.” Daniel closed his eyes and curved his lips in a slight smile as Cassandra’s blade sang through the air and granted him the peace he sought. 

She turned to Owain when it was done and exhaled a long, shaky breath. “He was my apprentice. I have never known a finer young man.”

Owain could think of nothing to say that would be helpful and just stared sadly at her, at a loss for words. 

“How about we find this Lord Seeker and make sure he pays for this?” Bull suggested.

“I fully intend to,” she replied.

They ascended the stairs and emerged into another courtyard, coming face-to-face with Lucius and a handful of knights in Templar armor. 

“Cassandra,” Lucius drawled as they came into view. “Here you are. With a man I can only assume is the new Inquisitor.”

Owain glared back and gripped his staff tightly. “And here’s the man who betrayed his own order.”

Lucius sneered. “I presume you know the Seekers were once the original Inquisition? Oh yes, we fought to restore order in a time of madness long ago, as you do now. And then do you know what happened? We became proud, Inquisitor. We sought to remake the world, to make it better. But we created the Chantry and the Circles of Magi. A war that will never end.”

“We are not the original Inquisition,” Owain insisted.

“Of course. You say that now.”

“So you did all this because you hate our order?” Cassandra asked, her voice full of disbelief.

“We Seekers are abominations, Cassandra,” Lucius replied. “We created a decaying world and fought to preserve it even as it crumbled. We had to be stopped.” He paused and tossed a heavy tome at her feet. 

“See for yourself. These are the secrets of our order, passed down from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker, since the time of the first Inquisition. When it came to me, the war with the mages had already begun, but it was not too late for me to do the right thing.” 

“Lord Seeker, what you have done...”

He didn't let her finish. “I have seen the future, Cassandra,” he interrupted, voice rising in pitch and volume. “I have created a new order. A pure order. The world will end so we can start anew. Join us! It is the Maker’s will!”

Lucius held out his hand to Cassandra, and Owain looked between the two of them. He felt primed for battle, taut like a drawn bow, but this was her fight, and he would follow her lead. She didn’t take her eyes off the Lord Seeker. He could see the muscles twitching in her jaw. Finally, she drew her sword and lunged at Lucius with a snarl. 

Owain hurried after her and shouted to Dorian and Bull to cover him, though he needn’t have said anything. They were already moving, the mage busy casting barriers as fast as he could and Bull plowing his axe into the nearest knight. Owain spun his staff and darted about the field, planting mines and casting more ice spells to hamstring their enemies, following them up with stonefist strikes and bolts of lightning. 

They did their best to fend off Lucius’s men, leaving Cassandra free to duel the Lord Seeker. The Seekers circled each other, trading blows and blocks. Her grunts and the clang of their weapons echoed through the wet courtyard. They were well matched, but hours of fighting earlier this afternoon had taken their toll on Cassandra’s stamina, and she was wearying quickly. 

Lucius landed a ferocious shield bash and swung hard with his mace, knocking her shield out of her grasp and flipping it to the ground. But his gambit had a cost, and he struggled to lift his weapon from where it had lodged in the sticky mud. Cassandra recovered swiftly and took her sword in both hands, using that narrow opening to thrust forward for a killing blow. 

The Lord Seeker seemed to stop struggling in that split second before her blade hit home. Owain could have sworn he saw him smile, in the end, before he fell to the ground with a low thump. It was over, and Cassandra was spent. She dropped her sword and sank gasping to her knees, chest heaving for air. 

Owain jogged to her side, worried that she was hurt. She shook her head and held a hand out to stop him, as if answering the question he was going to ask. She yanked off her helm and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sky, heedless of the light rain still falling from the grey clouds above. He stepped back and watched her, feeling helpless. His own heart clenched with the pain he could see writ on her face, but he understood her need for space in that moment. 

The rain passed after a time, and they built a makeshift pyre in the courtyard out of firewood, bits of broken furniture, and other debris they hauled out from the castle. When it was ready, Bull carried Daniel’s body and laid it on top with surprising delicacy. He stepped back, and Owain looked at Cassandra. She nodded, and he waved his hand slowly, sending flames licking through the kindling beneath the dead Seeker. 

They stood in silence, watching as the fire leapt higher and listening as Cassandra recited the Chant of Light. When she was finished, she turned and walked to the low stone wall that bordered the yard and looked out onto the countryside below. 

Bull and Dorian wandered away to set their camp for the night, leaving Owain alone with Cassandra. He followed her to the wall and folded her gently into his arms. This time, she accepted his comfort, pushing her arms under his coat to wrap them around his waist and burying her face in his shoulder. 

The wet soaking into his shirt was too warm to be rain. He said nothing but kissed the top of her head and held her tighter as her shoulders shook with silent sobs. He looked out at the horizon and realized that the clouds had cleared, and the setting sun had painted everything in red-orange glory. 

Owain lost track of how long they stood there, but it was a long time. Long enough for her breaths to turn steady against his chest and for the day to slip into night. 

\--

When they returned to Skyhold, Owain found Cassandra in the forge, poring over the book she had received from Lord Seeker Lucius. 

“Not as exciting as your usual reading, I take it?” he quipped, dropping into a chair opposite her. 

“On the contrary, it’s quite riveting, I assure you,” she said, with a slight smile on her lips. 

He arched a brow at her. “Oh? Then what great secrets have you learned, Seeker?”

She paused and looked down at the pages spread before her, taking a deep breath before answering. 

“I trust I needn’t explain Tranquility to you.”

Suddenly serious, Owain narrowed his eyes and blew out a bitter laugh. “Hard to be a Circle mage and not know. Not when the threat is dangled over you at every moment.” He searched for words to describe the mingled dread and disgust it inspired in him. “For every infraction, no matter how minor, part of you fears that will be the day they decide to do it. To sever your emotions and leave you an empty husk of yourself for the rest of your life. A fate worse than death, to some.”

Cassandra bowed her head. “It should only be used in the most extreme cases, on those who truly cannot control their abilities. But that has not always been the case.”

“That's putting it rather mildly,” he said sharply, remembering Cullen’s story about Maddox and his love letters.

“Perhaps so,” Cassandra acknowledged, before pressing on. “In any case, what started the mage rebellion was the discovery that the rite of Tranquility could be reversed. The Lord Seeker at the time covered it up, harshly. It was dangerous knowledge, and the shock of it, in addition to what happened in Kirkwall, is what sparked the war in the first place.”

Owain frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, though he held his tongue and let her continue.

“But it turns out we have always known how to reverse it. The Seekers created the rite. I told you of my vigil, the months I spent emptying myself of all emotion? I was made Tranquil and didn’t even know it. And then a spirit of faith touched my mind, breaking tranquility and granting me my abilities. The Seekers understood this and did not share it with anyone, not even the Chantry.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and struggled to grasp the full import of her words. “So, you're saying this horrible rite, this, this _abominable_ cruelty was created by your order? And you could have cured it but kept it a secret all this time?”

“Yes, yet another of our crimes,” she replied, making no effort to defend her order and their actions.

“Do you really think it can be cured?”

“It will take some research and further investigation, but I believe so, yes.”

He didn’t answer but sat deep in thought, his mind running through just a few of the implications. Not only would people who were currently Tranquil have the option of reversing the process, but no longer could it be used as a weapon against mages, a bludgeon to keep them in check. This had enormous repercussions for the Templars, if they continued to exist, as well as the free mages and their ability to govern themselves. No wonder the rebellion had started over this. 

Cassandra broke into his thoughts. “There’s more. Lucius was not wrong about the order.”

She stood and stepped toward the open window behind her, the sun streaming in to light her features as she spoke. 

“I do not think the Seekers have been doing the Maker’s work, not truly,” she admitted. “Perhaps we believed it once. The original Inquisition was created during a terrible time. But now? We create secrets and let them fester. We act to survive but not to serve. That is not the Maker’s work.”

“Then what is the Maker’s work, exactly?” he asked. 

“No one knows for certain. That is why we must keep seeking. Perhaps that is why we lost our way. Because we stopped looking.”

She turned to him and continued. “At some point, power becomes its own master. We cast aside ideals in favor of expedience and tell ourselves it was all necessary, for the people. I wonder how much we resemble what they used to be.”

Owain could not deny that was a very real risk, and Lucius had been right on that, if nothing else. He could insist all day that they would never become like the first Inquisition, but didn’t everyone start with good intentions? 

“Perhaps knowing the danger is half the battle?” he said. What more could they do?

“Perhaps. It cannot hurt.” She studied him for a long moment and then turned and cast her eyes out the window again. She folded her hands behind her back and sighed. 

“I had thought to rebuild the Seekers after victory was ours, but now I’m not so sure they deserve to be rebuilt.”

He sat and stared at her back, repeating the words in his mind. _After victory was ours._ He knew she was talking about the Seekers, but it was this phrase that caught his imagination. This was the first time she had ever mentioned a future after all this, and somehow, it freed him to think about it, too. What would _he_ do after victory was theirs? Would he go on being the Inquisitor? Would the Inquisition even continue after the rifts were closed and Corypheus was defeated? 

And what about the two of them? Surely _they_ were part of this future, too? A door suddenly opened, one he thought had closed to him forever the day he stepped foot in the Circle. His brain raced ahead of him, sowing a thousand possibilities in his heart. He saw himself and Cassandra, together, happy, in a sunlit world of peace. He saw them making a home together. Perhaps even a child—a family—together. It was almost too much to hope for. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. 

“Owain?” she looked at him expectantly, and he started. He could not for the life of him recall what she had asked him. 

He shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. What were you asking?”

“The Seekers,” she repeated, with a touch of impatience. “Do you think I should rebuild them?”

He looked at her and considered his response. The Seekers had gone astray, clearly, but their original charge had been laudable, and their knowledge of a Tranquil cure had to be preserved if it was ever to come to anything. Though he didn't believe in the Maker’s will, he did believe in checks and balances. Perhaps in a world where the Templars had gone mad and the Chantry was in disarray, Thedas could use an organization that rooted out corruption and kept them all honest. And who better to ensure they stayed true to their righteous goals than Cassandra herself? 

“I think there is still good the Seekers could do,” he said finally. “And if anyone is going to rebuild them, it should be you. But only if you want to, Cassandra.”

She smiled at him in response. “Thank you, Owain. I could not have done this without you.”

He rose and joined her by the window, leaning against the sill beside her and fixing her with an earnest look. “No matter what you decide, you have my support. And my love.”

Her hazel eyes glowed up at him and her lips parted ever so slightly. He pulled her against him and kissed her slowly. Thoroughly. When they separated, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers. He took a deep breath and felt that his heart had never been so full.


	19. Sweetness and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling, hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highly NSFW! In case you were wondering where the smut went.

Waking up beside Cassandra always felt like the extension of a pleasant dream, one he had the privilege of having every night. Waking up beside her in his own bed, however, was a novelty. So much of their time was spent on the road, in cramped tents and on thin bedrolls. Owain could probably count on his hands the number of nights they had spent together at Skyhold.

He slept better next to her, but his old sleeplessness hadn’t left him completely. Today, like most days, he woke first. Tucking a hand under his ear, he turned on his side and blinked his eyes open. 

Early morning lit the stained glass windows, tinting the room purple, yellow, and blue. Cassandra was still sleeping, her eyes closed and breath steady, shoulders rising and falling in a cadence he tried to match with his own lungs. She faced him, clutching most of the covers in her arms as usual, but he didn’t mind. Her hair drifted in a scattered fringe across her forehead, her long, thin braid curling over the bare expanse of her shoulder. 

As if she could sense him watching her, her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled slowly as they focused on him. He responded with the barest smile of his own, more eyes than lips, and cherished that lovely, quiet moment. He wanted to preserve it, to save it forever, but it was delicate as frost on a window, and just touching it would change it into something else entirely. 

Not that that was a bad thing. He scooted himself closer and pulled the edge of the covers from her hands, tossing it over his shoulder to join her underneath. He propped his head on one hand and slid the other down her back, stopping just above the curve of her ass.

He stretched out, luxuriating in the warm, smooth press of her naked body against his. Her breasts brushed his chest, and their legs intertwined between the soft sheets. _Real beds have benefits,_ he thought, looking down into her just-woken eyes.

“Sleep well, my love?” he asked. 

“Mm. Very well.”

“Better than the forge?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don't gloat.”

“Me?” he replied archly. “Never.”

He smirked but otherwise complied. It’d been surprisingly difficult to convince Cassandra to sleep in his quarters. They spent several nights crammed into the bedroll where she normally slept, in the alcove above the forge. Each time, he pointed out that he had a very comfortable, very large bed in a spacious room in the main keep, but all his logical arguments came to nothing, like so many waves breaking on a stone wall. It was only when he accidentally kicked over her stack of books for the third time that she finally rolled her eyes and relented.

“I said I would make it worth it,” he added.

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I can think of a few ways,” he said slyly. _A lot of ways, in fact._

He shifted over her and tilted his head to catch her lips in a slow, lazy kiss, his tongue greeting hers in what was sure to be the first of many meetings this morning. Her fingers grazed his cheek and danced along his shoulders. He pulled back to look at her, his eyelids growing heavy with desire. 

His cock was an increasingly solid weight between them, trapped against her belly. It did not go unnoticed, because she smiled wickedly and squirmed under him, and he couldn’t stop the groan that flew past his lips. 

She drew his face down for another kiss, her thumbs sliding along the line of his jaw. Every fiber of her demanded deeper, harder, more. Breaking from her mouth, he moved down to her neck, sucking and biting at her pulse point, at the now familiar spot behind her ear that never failed to elicit the gasps and moans he loved so much. 

Supporting his weight on one arm, he ran his free hand up and down her body as he kissed her, traveling from her hip to her breast, squeezing slowly, teasing everywhere but her nipples until he had her panting beneath him. Finally, he covered one of them with his mouth and scraped the tip of his thumb over the other, and she cried out, her body jerking up from the mattress. 

He smiled with satisfaction against her skin and doubled his efforts, dedicating tongue and teeth and hands to his cause. She writhed against him and carded her fingers through his hair, scratching her nails against his scalp in a way that tingled down his spine. His cock pulsed with need, but he ignored it and shifted his attention lower. 

She whimpered with disappointment as he ducked under the sheets and moved his lips down her ribcage, down her firm stomach, past her navel. Only when he planted a soft kiss on the curls between her legs did she realize his intent, and she froze, clamping her legs together and pulling them out of his reach. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, propping herself on her elbows to look sharply at him over her bent knees. 

Owain threw the covers aside and sat back on his heels, studying the apprehension on her face. It was rare for Cassandra to be timid about anything, but part of him relished this. He enjoyed being the one to discover these moments of shyness, like secrets only he knew, just as he enjoyed showing her there was nothing to be afraid of. 

“I said I would make it worth it, and I will,” he replied with a wry twist of his mouth. “Besides, I’m sleeping with a woman who can set my blood on fire if she chooses. My survival instincts tell me I should keep her happy.”

She stuttered, unconvinced. “But- but I’ve never… No one has ever…”

He reached a hand out and placed it on her leg, lightly. He could feel her tense under his touch. “Do you trust me?” he asked softly, looking into her eyes.

She stared at him for a beat before answering with a small nod and easing her legs back onto the bed. 

He started slowly, pulling her knees apart gently and crawling on his elbows until he settled between them. On one leg and then the other, he trailed slow kisses up her inner thighs, stopping just short of her sex each time. He scraped his stubbled cheek against her skin and smoothed over it with his tongue, taking his time. Periodically, he looked up to gauge her reaction, and it gratified him to see that she watched with rapt attention, her eyes losing their worried cast and darkening with desire. 

Encouraged, he pushed aside her dark curls and spread her open before him, running a finger along her wet folds. It reminded him that his cock was hard and feeling neglected. But he was a man who liked to finish what he started. 

He locked his eyes on hers, and without breaking that heated gaze, he breathed deeply of her and touched his tongue to that most sensitive part of her. She bucked and tried to close her legs, but his wide shoulders between her knees and his hands on her thighs kept her pinned to the bed, like a butterfly under glass. 

He looked up at her. “Do you want me to stop?” He teased her again as he spoke. It was almost cheating, he knew. She gasped and shook her head. 

A wicked part of him wanted to push her further. He smirked and withdrew his fingers, exhaling. “What was that?” he said in a low rumble. “I can’t hear you, Cassandra. You’ll have to tell me what you want.”

She whimpered again at the loss of his touch and at the feeling of his cool breath as it fanned over her. Her eyes flickered darkly at him. Still, he waited. 

She caved almost immediately, and it was perfect. “Please, Owain,” she whispered. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

That was all the ask he needed. He obliged with a _lick_ along the length of her before closing his lips over her pearl. She gave an open-mouthed cry and arched her body from the mattress again, her hands scrabbling at the sheets for purchase. 

It spurred him on, his cock twitching at her responsiveness, his heart swelling with pride at the pleasure he wrought from her. He was relentless, working her with lips and tongue, even as he brought his fingers up to thrust into her slick core, finding a rhythm that made her moan and gasp his name. Her hands moved from the sheets to his head, tugging at his hair, pulling him down while she rocked herself against him. He didn’t mind any of it. The scent and taste of her was musky and feminine and Cassandra, and that was good enough for him. 

His attentions brought her to the edge, and with another stroke of his tongue and curl of his fingers inside her, she stiffened and cried out his name. He persisted as she rode out her pleasure, until she melted breathlessly into the mattress, spent. Wiping his mouth on the sheets, he grinned foolishly as he crawled up beside her once again. 

He kissed her, knowing she would taste herself on his tongue and not caring. He touched her cheek and drank in the sight of her, running his thumb along her scar.

“You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”

She knit her brows and shook her head in denial. “Some men would say I am too tall. Or too strong. Too determined.”

He scoffed at the shame of it. “Well, that’s their loss,” he said quietly, losing himself in the deep hazel of her eyes. And then he kissed her again, so she would know it was true.

He felt her fingers wrap around his cock, as if to say she hadn't forgotten about _that._ He closed his eyes and groaned, thrusting into her hand like he couldn’t help himself. Because he couldn’t, really. His self-control was in tatters. She smiled and pushed him onto his back. Before he knew what was happening, she had crawled down his body and taken him in her mouth, obviously bent on returning the favor. 

He groaned deeply again as the feel of it rolled through him. The wet heat of her mouth was incredible, like the tight circle of her lips, the smooth caress of her tongue over his tip, the firm grip of her fingers around his shaft. But it was her eyes looking up at him that almost pushed him over the brink. He touched his hand to the back of her head as she bobbed over him and fought desperately to avoid spilling right then.

It was a battle he was losing. And as good as this felt, he decided that her mouth was not how he wanted to finish. He stopped her and pulled back, moving until he was sitting up against the headboard. He beckoned to her, and even without words, she understood.

She planted her knees on either side of his hips and steadied herself on the headboard, looking heatedly into his eyes as she loomed over him. _Yes, beds have their advantages,_ he thought vaguely as he gazed up at her with single-minded lust. He gripped her ass as she slowly impaled herself, and a garbled noise left his throat as she took him to the hilt. She smiled and tipped his face up, crushing his mouth under hers, not gentle now but urgent. She broke away to throw her head back as she rode him, and he rose up to meet her, planting kisses along her throat and collarbone, reaching up to knead her breasts as they bounced in front of him. 

He held her tight to him as he found his release, squeezing his eyes shut and mangling her name as that single point of pleasure broke over him, leaving him shivering and twitching in its wake. He let her go and fell back against the headboard, muscles slack, letting his head hit the wood with a blunt knock. 

His love for her was the only thought in his brain, and he stared up at her in a haze of complete awe. She was everything he could have dreamed or hoped for, everything he never thought he would find or be allowed to have, and she was here, impossibly, in his arms. She smiled down at him again and brushed her fingers through his sweat-damp hair. He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm, kissed the beating pulse at her wrist. 

“Can we stay here forever?” he asked, more than half serious, still holding her fingers in his. 

She laughed at him and shook her head. “You are the Inquisitor, remember? You have judgments today. You must go down.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What if we just locked the door and never came out?”

“You know Josephine has keys to all the rooms in the castle. You would not last fifteen minutes.”

“I could set mines,” he suggested, bringing her hand to his lips again. “They’d have to find a mage to defuse them. Could take hours. You know what we could do with hours?” He flicked his tongue across her wrist. 

Her eyes glowed at him, even as she sighed and reluctantly pulled her hand from his grasp. “I can imagine, Inquisitor. But it is time to face the day.” 

With regret, he watched her rise from his lap and stand to dress, her body framed in a fall of sunlight. He wished again that he could save that moment forever. It was a dream he never wanted to end.

\--

Owain hated passing judgements. No other task made him so acutely aware of the unwarranted authority that had been foisted on him in his role as the Inquisitor. He was called upon to decide fates—life or death, mercy or punishment—and no amount of practice ever made it any easier. 

The prisoners were variously remorseful, repentant, or defiant. Some begged for leniency, others spat insults and venom. It was his job to sit stone-faced on that ridiculous throne and take it all. It wore on him, hardened his heart and frayed his nerves. 

Today’s docket was particularly long. It read like a litany of his journeys in Thedas. There was Gregory Dedrick, the mayor of Crestwood—to the Grey Wardens with him, to atone as best he could. Mistress Poulin, the mine owner from Sahrnia, sentenced to serve the villagers she had wronged. A Warden from Adamant, wracked with guilt over killing a comrade to bind a demon from the Fade. He sent her to find her own end in the Deep Roads. 

Then came Erimond, the unrepentant Magister, still singing the praises of Corypheus even as he knelt in chains in the heart of Skyhold. Nothing cowed him, not the threat of death or imprisonment. Owain refused to even consider Tranquility, though Josephine suggested it could be an option. 

He thought of the Inquisition soldiers that died because of this man, and it filled him with rage. The brave but misguided Wardens. Clarel. Hawke. It made him want to punch Erimond in his sneering, mustached face. 

So then, he did. Before reason could catch up with his impulse, he launched himself from his seat, fade-stepping toward the Magister. He barreled out of the Fade fist first, connecting with Erimond’s jaw at full strength and sending him sprawling to the polished stone floor. 

The spectators in the room gasped in shock. A few screamed. Others recoiled in fear at the clearly unhinged mage Inquisitor. Josie looked aghast, not because of him, he guessed, but in anticipation of the ruffled feathers she would have to smooth later. Cassandra, however, wore a small, curious smile, and he was pretty sure Cullen hid a smirk behind his gauntlet. 

It was completely unnecessary, but it felt _good._ Owain shook his hand out and flexed his fingers. His knuckles would bruise, for sure, but he didn’t care. He looked down with disgust at Erimond, who still lay on the floor, ranting something about gods and Tevinter. Then he turned and walked slowly back to his throne.

“Livius Erimond, I sentence you to die,” Owain pronounced when he reached his seat again. Whatever the Magister might say about glory in death, dead was dead. And after what he had done, he did not deserve to live. 

The guards dragged him away and brought in the last prisoner of the day. Blackwall. Or Rainier, rather. He stood in front of Owain with a slump in his shoulders. Josie read out his crimes while he aggressively avoided eye contact, keeping his gaze directed firmly at the floor. 

Owain studied the man and absently rubbed his sore knuckles. Gone was the anger and defiance he had witnessed in the prison in Val Royeaux, replaced with defeat and resignation. He had thought many times over the past weeks about what he’d say in this moment. He had already resolved on a pardon, but part of him was curious what Rainier might say for himself now. Would he make it difficult?

“How do you answer the charges?” he asked when Josie had finished. 

Rainier raised his head for the first time to meet Owain eye-to-eye. “I don’t,” he said simply. “They’re all true. The crimes are mine, and I deserve to pay for them. You should have left me in Orlais.”

“I’m afraid that wasn’t possible,” Owain replied. 

Rainier scoffed. “You want to act like you’re not a noble, _my lord,_ but you’re just like the rest. Using favors to get around the law, to avoid justice. You should have let me hang.” He glanced at Josie then. “I’m afraid your ambassador has wasted her efforts.”

Owain grit his teeth. _Difficult, then._ Still, he once thought he had never met a man as determined as Blackwall to do good and right his wrongs, and that hadn’t changed. In his estimation, Rainier had paid for his sins already, and perhaps the depth of his guilt would ensure he continued to do so. 

“You’re part of the Inquisition, Rainier. Or at least, you were. That means you are mine to judge, and I judge you to be a free man. Free to pay for your crimes as you see fit.”

The crowd murmured, and Rainier’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, but it took a moment for the words to come. 

“So that’s it?” he asked. “Just like that? Free?”

“Yes,” Owain confirmed. “You are free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought you were or the Warden you pretended to be.”

“The man I am?” Rainier replied in disbelief. “I barely know him. And I have a lot to atone for...” He bowed his head and took a deep breath before speaking again. 

“If my future is truly mine,” he continued, “then I pledge it to the Inquisition. My sword is yours, Inquisitor, to wield as you wish.”

Owain nodded deeply and signaled to the guards, who removed Rainier’s chains. 

Rainier rubbed his wrists and exhaled a short breath. “If I’d said anything less, would an arrow from the rookery have snuffed me like a candle?”

Owain sat back on his throne. He opened his hands and let the anchor crackle on his left while he conjured a flame in his right, letting them burn for a second before balling them into fists. 

“I don’t need arrows,” he replied. 

\--

There was always paperwork after judgements, and it was late in the day by the time Josephine had finished with him. Feeling drained and restless, Owain went in search of Cassandra, looking for a reminder of all that was good in his life. 

As he reached for the door to the forge, it swung inward, leaving him grasping at air and stumbling forward to catch himself. Mother Giselle stood in the doorway, looking annoyed. She paused to greet him before breezing through as he stepped out of the way. 

“Talk to her, Your Worship,” said the cleric in passing, nodding over her shoulder. She was indicating Cassandra, who followed a few paces behind, striding toward the door with a frown on her face and purpose in her gait. 

Cassandra stopped just outside and stood with him, watching Giselle move out of earshot as she walked back to the keep. Owain followed the Seeker’s line of sight before snapping his eyes back to hers. Unsure what this was about, he waited for her to speak first. 

She shot him another look and then turned to walk toward the training yard, intending for him to follow.

“I suppose you’ve heard that Leliana and I are both candidates to be the next Divine?” she began. 

He hadn’t, actually. He halted and furrowed his brow at her. “What? You and Leliana? How is that even possible? You’re not priests.”

Cassandra shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. “It is not without precedent. As the hands of the Divine, we were at least part of the Chantry hierarchy. However, because of what happened at Halamshiral and Adamant, the Empire favors you, and thus everyone close to you. So they throw our names around without even asking us first.”

Owain crossed his arms like she did and shifted his weight as he considered this. “Well, is it something you want? Do you want to be Divine?”

Cassandra was silent for a moment, thinking, looking down at the ground before bringing her eyes up to his. “The Chantry needs to change. It should be a source of faith and hope. Compassion. But it has become a shadow of what it should be. The Circle of Magi, the Templars, this pointless war. It has set itself on a path and cannot veer from that course, even in the face of certain death. It needs reform.”

“I’m a little surprised to hear you say that.”

“Oh?” she said with a raised brow. “Am I not the same women who declared the Inquisition in defiance of the Chantry’s wishes? In all my years as a Seeker, I did what I was told. My faith demanded it. But now my faith demands something else. That I see with clearer eyes.” 

She sighed before continuing. “And yet, being the Divine is not just about faith. It involves politics, playing the Game, persuading people to accept change.”

“Everything you hate, in other words,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “You seem to know a great deal more about this than I do. Why did Mother Giselle want me to talk to you?”

“Perhaps she thinks you could convince me. Or, as the Inquisitor, your word carries great weight in Orlais, including the Grand Cathedral. If you were to make a recommendation for Divine, it would hold considerable sway over the proceedings.”

She paused again, taking a deep breath and looking away. “There is something else you should know, Owain. The Divine devotes her life to the Maker. She can never marry. She cannot... have a lover.”

He looked at her sharply. “Then you will refuse it, if it’s offered?”

Cassandra opened her mouth to reply but stopped short, and doubt flickered in her eyes. That second of hesitation told him everything he needed to know. 

“Oh,” he said, simply, moving unsteadily toward a nearby rock and sitting down on it, hard. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm the whirring of his brain to process the meaning of her words. 

“So, let me get this straight,” he said, over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “You’re asking me to recommend you for Divine, so you can leave me?”

“I… It’s not that simple,” she replied. 

“Actually, I think it is.”

“It’s an opportunity, Owain,” she huffed. “The Chantry needs to change if it is to survive. I have never believed in asking another to do what you are unwilling to do yourself. I owe it to myself and all of Thedas to seek the Sunburst Throne.”

“What about what you owe _us_?” he shot back, his voice needlessly loud. “Haven’t we given enough? Sacrificed enough? What about-” He stopped himself mid-sentence. _What about our future,_ he wanted to say but suddenly couldn’t bear to. He took a ragged breath instead. “How can you make these decisions without consulting me? This affects me, too.”

“I am consulting you now.”

“And it sounds like you’ve already decided. Does it even matter what I say?”

She made a frustrated noise and shook her head. “This is bigger than the two of us. Owain, this is the chance to shape the Chantry for years to come. To restore it to the ideal it needs to be. How can I say no to that?”

He hung his head between his knees, pressing his fists to his forehead. His happiness that morning, all the unspoken hopes he held for the future, they turned to dust in his hands. The judgements earlier that day had left him brittle, and now here came the fractures. His heart was breaking, and raw emotion was bleeding to the surface.

“Do I mean so little to you?” he asked quietly, squinting up at her. It wasn’t fair, he knew. But a mean, petty part of him wanted to hurt her as she had hurt him.

She looked stricken. “No!” She nearly choked on the words. “No... I _love_ you, Owain.” 

_But not enough,_ he thought savagely, though he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Never enough. He would always come second, to the Maker, to the Chantry, to the duty of the day. _I told you,_ said the mean, small voice in his head.

She plunged into the icy silence and tried to reassure him. “Perhaps it does not matter anyway. They merely speak my name for now. It is quite possible they will name another.” 

When he still didn’t respond, she tried again. “Even if they did select me, defeating Corypheus remains our first priority. It would be some time before I would need to go anywhere. Nothing needs to change.”

He breathed a laugh of contempt. She was trying to contain the damage, but it was far too late for that. Things had already changed. He pulled his lip back in a snarl and gave her a hard look as he pushed himself to his feet. 

“Why bother?” he said coldly, fueling his spite with the pain in her eyes. “Let’s not waste our time.” 

She stood rooted to the spot, as if he had slapped her in the face. He turned and walked quickly away, leaving her there in the yard. Not because he was still angry, but because he was about to fall to pieces, and the last thing he wanted was for her to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m the worst. Buckle up for the angst, my friends...


	20. Sticks and Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra gets left behind, and a bad day gets worse.

“Hey, Blackwall. You ever get the feeling that you’re… you know... _replacing_ someone? Another warrior who usually travels with the Inquisitor? Mean sword arm, nice ass?”

“I’m here because the Inquisitor needs me to be. Whatever happens between him and the Lady Seeker is none of my business.”

“Ri-ight. I thought so. Well, you know what I think? I think they just need to bone.”

“Is that how you solve all of your problems? Just fuck your way out of it?”

“Not all of them. Sometimes I use my axe.”

They were riding along a narrow road threading through the foothills of the Frostbacks, down to the plains of Orlais on their way to the Shrine of Dumat to the northwest. Owain swiveled in his saddle to throw a sharp glare at Bull and Blackwall behind him. One-and-a-half pairs of eyes blinked back at him.

“Can’t you find something else to talk about?” he asked, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice.

“Sorry, Boss,” Bull replied. “Just can’t help noticing that Cass isn’t with us. She seemed pretty upset about it back there.” 

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Owain snapped, turning back around and urging his horse forward at a slightly faster clip. 

They continued in silence for a bit, until Dorian pulled up beside him. “You know, for someone who is so little fun herself, you are considerably _worse_ company when she’s not around.”

Owain threw him a dirty look out of the corner of his eye.

“Fine, fine,” he replied, waving it off. “I’ll let you sulk. But, banter aside, Trevelyan, have you actually tried talking to Cassandra about this whole Divine thing? Maybe you could change her mind? It hardly seems decided, no?”

That was it. Owain grunted in frustration and kicked his horse into a gallop, putting a good stretch of road between him and his companions. He knew they meant well, but talking about the state of his relationship with Cassandra was the last thing he wanted to do right now. He could hardly form coherent thoughts about it, never mind words that he wanted to say out loud. It was all still too raw.

He hadn’t spoken to her since that conversation in the yard. He’d avoided being alone with her for days, throwing himself into work instead, and when Cullen reported that he’d finally located the Red Templar base, Owain jumped at the chance to get away from Skyhold. 

To get away from Cassandra, really. But that meant leaving her behind, something none of them was used to. Ever since he joined the Inquisition, he had never once traveled without her, and it was a strange experience for them all. 

He didn’t tell her beforehand, couldn’t even bring himself to face her in that way. Instead, he simply saddled up without her, like a gutless bastard. She came storming into the courtyard as they were mounting their horses. She was dressed for travel, her shield on her back and sword at her hip, pack swinging from her shoulder. Quickly assessing the situation, she strode toward him and stood imposingly in front of his horse, dropping her pack at her feet and folding her arms across her chest. The glare she gave him could have melted ice.

Owain had frozen in place, his hands on the saddle, one foot in the stirrup. Bull, Blackwall, and Dorian, already mounted, looked nervously between him and Cassandra, unsure what to do next. 

He shook his head to clear it and hoisted himself defiantly onto his horse. Frowning, Cassandra took hold of its bridle. He glanced at the others and jerked his head toward the gate. 

“Blackwall, Bull, Dorian. Get started without me. I’ll catch up to you on the road.”

They didn’t move, still looking nervously at the Seeker. 

“I said, go!” His voice was sharper than it needed to be.

They shot him one more concerned look and then turned their horses to follow the order. 

Cassandra hadn’t taken her eyes off him. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice dangerously low, bristling with held-back rage. 

“Heading to Orlais to deal with the Red Templars,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “Cullen’s gone ahead to secure--”

“Without me?” she interrupted, her eyes sparking with anger.

Owain set his jaw and ripped his eyes away, looking down at the reins in his hands and twisting them between his gloved fingers. “Right,” he gritted out. “Well, I thought it would be better for both of us if we had some time apart. To think about things.”

“You cannot do this.” There was pain, now, mixing with the anger in her face. “I will not be left behind!”

“Can’t I?” he replied coldly, steeling himself to meet her eyes again. “We’ve all been so busy the past few months. Perhaps it’s good for you to take a break.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the right thing. She was fuming.

“Is this about the Divine election? Are you punishing me?”

 _Yes._ “No.” He shook his head. “Look, I need to go. We’ll talk when I get back. I promise.”

“You. I can’t believe… Ugh!” She dropped her hands into fists at her sides and scowled at him. He threw her a last, hard look before taking off, urging his horse away through Skyhold’s gates. Behind him, he heard a cry of frustration and the sound of something, probably her pack, slamming into the ground. 

Now, having gone far enough from his party, Owain slowed his horse to a walk and pulled off the road where it widened into an overlook affording an expansive view of the grassy plain below. He slipped the glove from one of his hands and closed his eyes, pressing the tips of his fingers to his eyelids and breathing deeply. It was the kind of grey winter day that smelled like impending snow.

He hated himself for running away from her like that, twice now. A better man would have stayed and faced her. A better man would have understood the lure of the Sunburst Throne, would have stepped aside and acquiesced to duty. A better man would have let her go. 

But he wasn’t a better man. He was a fucking coward.

What was he so afraid of, exactly? Certainty, among other things. Knowing that what they had might be broken or irretrievably lost. Suspecting it was bad enough. To know for sure, to hear the words from her lips- that he couldn’t handle. Not yet, anyway.

He had imagined losing her a hundred different ways, but never like this. A blade blocked too late, an unlucky arrow, sure. But losing her to the Chantry? To her own sense of duty? That he had never anticipated. To say nothing of his own poor handling of the situation. 

Why did it have to be the Chantry? Old resentment burned within him. All the Chantry had ever done was take from him. His home, his family, his freedom and future. Love. Cassandra was all those things to him now, and he was about to lose her, too. 

He thought for a moment about Liat, the Templar he had given his heart to, once. It was so long ago, he could hardly remember anything about her but her face, which still appeared in his dreams occasionally as the embodiment of everything he used to want so badly. Approval, acknowledgement, a normal life. He tried to tell himself this was different, that the guttering flame of his first love was nothing to the consuming blaze of his feelings for the Seeker. But his pattern-seeking mind couldn’t help drawing the parallels.

He was being left, again. Abandoned, thrown away. Given up in the name of duty and faith, because of who he was and what he was, things he had no control over. Familiar anger and hurt, long-buried, bubbled up from the fissures of his heart. It made him feel reckless and restless. 

He should have known better. He cursed himself for falling so hard, for letting her get so deep under his skin. He thought… Maker, he thought he was safe with Cassandra. He trusted that it would be them against the world, just like it was on the battlefield, that they would face any challenges together. He never thought the biggest challenge would come from within, and the sharp edge of that betrayal cut him to the core. If only he had been wiser. Had kept her at arm’s length, left it at Inquisitor and Seeker. If only he had listened to her own advice about courting her…

But, no. He remembered then. The smell of her hair in a tent before dawn, the taste of her lips on a moonlit battlement. The glow of her bare skin in candlelight and the flare of desire in her eyes. His name made beautiful in her voice. He couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it. 

He rubbed his hand over his face and inhaled, feeling the cold air stinging his lungs. _Fuck, he missed her._ Her quiet presence at his side, her counsel, her sword. Her unwavering courage and strength that sharpened his own best instincts. Her warmth in his bed. 

He should get used to that, he thought, as his horse pawed the dead grass at its feet. A long sigh turned to mist in front of him.

He had no one to blame but himself. Against his better judgement, he had built this house of hope for himself, and now the ground was falling away beneath it. 

He blinked hard, to release the tears, letting the wind whip them away before they could fall.

\--

Cullen greeted them when they arrived at the Inquisition’s forward camp, a mile or so from the Shrine of Dumat. 

“Inquisitor,” he began, even as Owain was swinging down from his horse. It had started to snow, big flakes that caught in his hair and left wet spots on his coat. “It’s good that you’re here. Our scouts have spotted activity at the shrine. Movement, smoke. We suspect they know we’re coming. It's imperative that we get there as soon as possible, before they can retreat and cover their tracks.”

Owain paused beside his horse and glanced at the rest of his party, who looked wearily back at him at this news. They had ridden hard the past few days and were looking forward to at least a hot meal before the attack on the shrine. But there was nothing for it. He looked back at the urgency on Cullen’s face and sighed. 

“Very well,” he said, patting his horse on her neck. “We should get fresh mounts, though, if possible. I think ours have earned a rest.”

Cullen nodded and barked orders to his men to make the necessary arrangements, and without further delay, they set off to close the remaining distance between them and the Red Templar base. 

They arrived at the outskirts of the shrine and found it oddly quiet. There were no guards posted outside, not a Red Templar in sight. They could see smoke rising faintly from the rear of the structure, as the Inquisition scouts had reported. Owain slid from his horse and furrowed his brow, drawing his staff from his back.

“On your guards, everyone. Watch for traps.”

He regarded Cullen at his side. The commander adjusted his grip on his shield and hefted his sword in his hand. There was an air of nervous energy about him. This was significant to the former Templar, Owain remembered, the culmination of months of searching. Time to face Samson at last.

“What’s the intelligence on numbers?” he asked. “How many can we expect?”

“The latest reports were of a couple dozen Red Templars, at least,” Cullen replied with a crease in his brow. “Plus Samson and his lieutenants. But I would have expected someone to be posted outside. Something’s not right here.”

Owain nodded, stretching his shoulders. A full day on horseback had taken its toll on his joints, but there was nothing to do about that now. 

They made their way to the doors, and he pushed them open. They were hit immediately with a nauseating wave of red lyrium energy. It seemed to vibrate the very air. Owain winced and stole a quick glance at the others-- Dorian’s scrunched-up features matched his own feelings. Cullen, too, was reeling. Even Bull and Blackwall seemed taken aback. 

He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. There was nothing to do but go on-- that seemed to be the theme of the day. He stepped into the cavernous interior of the shrine, a large room topped by an arched ceiling and lined with thick stone columns. Crimson banners with the Templar crest fluttered along the walls, and glowing spires of red lyrium jutted up from the floor. Just like the courtyard outside, it was suspiciously empty and quiet. 

Wide walkways surrounded a central opening to the floor below, now filled with flames and acrid smoke. The heat was oppressive, as was the smoke stinging at their eyes. Added to the constant press of the red lyrium on his consciousness, Owain already couldn’t wait to leave this place. 

“They must be covering their tracks,” he said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Let’s hope there’s at least some evidence left.”

They picked their way down a massive staircase, and there at the base, they finally saw a small group of Red Templar knights, perhaps five or six in total, flanked by a handful of horrors and shadows in advanced stages of corruption. 

He glanced at his companions, who were moving into battle formation. The warriors formed a line while Dorian busied himself casting barriers over them all. Owain made the first move, fade-stepping through their ranks to drop ice mines on the cluster of Templar knights. Bull followed with a spinning, shattering whirlwind, while Cullen and Blackwall moved in on his flanks. 

The chaos of battle ensued, and Owain lost himself in the fight. He darted behind the knights, doing his best to deal with the horrors and shadows, aided by Dorian’s lightning from afar. He dodged the claws of a screeching horror, driving his staff blade down into its foot, pinning it in place momentarily, holding it still while he summoned a spire of ice to plunge into its heart. 

Another horror came tearing toward him even as the first dissolved into ash, and he spun to meet it, blocking its claws with his staff and sending it stumbling back with a stonefist to the face. Yet another took its place behind him, getting close enough to tear through the tail of his coat and land a glancing slash down his thigh. The wound burned, and he cursed under his breath as he retreated, fade-stepping to the rear beside Dorian. 

He held a hand to his leg as he fished a potion out of his pocket and couldn’t help thinking that it was the kind of blow Cassandra would have blocked for him, the kind of thing he normally didn’t need to think about. He missed her again, their effortless familiarity with each other’s style and rhythm. Blackwall and Cullen were great warriors, to be sure, but they didn’t move like she did. They didn’t know him like she did. 

They emerged victorious and mostly unscathed, other than a few cuts and bruises and Owain’s minor injury. He limped a bit as he approached the large double doors that dominated the far end of the hall. He pushed them open to reveal a smaller chamber. This one, too, contained clusters of red lyrium, along with signs of a living area and workshop. 

He was distracted from his survey of the room by a shaky voice from his peripheral vision. He turned to see a man in mage robes slumped against the wall by the door. As he got closer, he could see the tell-tale brand of the Tranquil stamped on his forehead.

“Inquisitor,” the man said.

Owain furrowed his brow. “You know me?”

“Maddox,” Cullen said, jogging forward and kneeling beside the man. 

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” the Tranquil replied. His face was pale and sheened with sweat, and his hands shook with a small tremor. 

“Not anymore,” Cullen replied. “Are you alright? Should I summon our healers?”

“It’s too late for that,” Maddox croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I drank my entire supply of Blightcap Essence. It won’t be long now.”

“We only wanted to ask you questions, Maddox. There was no need for that.”

“That is exactly what I could not allow. I destroyed our camp with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our lives ensured Samson had time to escape.”

“You threw your lives away, for _Samson?_ Why?” Cullen sounded incredulous.

“Samson saved me even before he needed me,” the Tranquil gasped. “He gave me purpose. I wanted... to help...” His head lolled forward then, and he fell into silence. 

Cullen rose slowly and turned to Owain. “We should check the camp. Maddox may have missed something.”

“We can’t just leave him here,” Owain replied, remembering the man’s story and feeling a surge of pity for him. “He should be properly laid to rest.”

“You’re right,” Cullen sighed. “I’ll have someone take care of it. If even Samson did his best for Maddox, we can do no less.”

They rummaged the room for clues, for anything that might shed light on Samson’s escape route, his activities, or the enchanted armor that made him nearly invincible.

Cullen picked up a scrap of paper, oddly unblemished, unlike the rest of the charred documents that littered the room. 

“It’s a letter,” he said, frowning. “Addressed to me. ‘Drink enough lyrium, and its song reveals the truth. The Chantry used us, you’re fighting the wrong war. Corypheus chose me as his vessel of power…’ Oh, Maker’s breath. What nonsense. Does he think I’ll understand?” He threw the paper back on the desk and sighed in exasperation. 

Owain picked up a set of metal implements, charred and bent, but not broken. “What are these?” he asked, looking at Dorian. The Tevinter paused in his search of the desk drawers and came close for a better look. 

“They appear to be tools for working lyrium,” Dorian replied. “I’ve seen similar ones used by craftsmen in Minrathous. They’re quite rare, almost certainly worth a fortune.”

“That’s it!” Cullen said. “Those must be the tools that Maddox used to make Samson’s red lyrium armor. Tranquils often design their own tools for specific jobs. Perhaps Dagna can make sense of these and tell us how the armor was made. And how to unmake it.”

Owain handed the tools over. Cullen pulled a banner from the wall and wrapped them carefully in the cloth, tucking the bundle under his arm as they made their way back to the entrance. 

Owain was eager to get away from the lyrium, a headache now raging in his temples. The cold, fresh air outside was a blessing, but any relief he felt evaporated as he heard the familiar roar of a Red Templar behemoth. 

They exited the shrine to find themselves faced with what was undoubtedly the rest of the company of Red Templars. It was easily double the size of the group inside, with knights, horrors, and behemoths in their ranks. 

_Shit._ His stomach was a ball of ice in his gut. _Fuck._

They were vastly outnumbered. He considered their options. They could retreat back into the shrine, but there was no other exit, and they would be going back into the haze of smoke and red lyrium. Not an ideal place to last out a siege. They were cut off in every other direction. The only path forward was to fight their way out. Or die in the attempt. 

A Templar knight in high-ranking plate stepped forward out of the crowd. Red lyrium covered his shoulders and neck, crystals protruding from his face and forehead. He wore no helmet-- no doubt because it wouldn’t fit over those growths, Owain thought.

“Inquisition!” the Templar sneered. “You thought to capture Samson, the vessel of Corypheus? You dare to defy the will of a god? You underestimate the power of the Templar Order! You failed, and you will die here!”

The Templar officer raised his warhammer and shouted, and his men, if they could be called that, rushed forward toward Owain and his party’s position by the doors. 

Owain quickly dropped a set of mines in front of them and cast walls of ice at their flanks. The warriors formed a line in front of him, while Dorian threw new barriers over them all. 

“I’m too pretty to die,” he sighed, gripping his staff and sparking lightning from his fingertips.

Owain swept them all with a grim look. 

“Whatever happens, it was an honor to serve as your Inquisitor.”

“The honor was ours, Trevelyan,” Cullen replied. Blackwall nodded in agreement.

“Don’t look so glum, boys,” Bull retorted, hefting his axe. “Let’s take as many of these bastards with us as we can. We’re not done yet.”

Owain smiled darkly and readied a fireball in his hand. “I hope you’re right.”

The first wave of Red Templars crashed into them then, and any more talk was drowned out by the screeches of the behemoths and horrors and the clash of metal on metal. The mines and shattering blows of the warriors put a dent in the first line of Templars, but the next wave broke through their defensive formation. Owain ended up next to Cullen, throwing spikes of ice and fireballs, setting mines and slashing with his staff as rapidly as he could. 

He fade-stepped back toward the doors, looking for a pocket of space to cast one of his bigger spells. He downed a lyrium potion from his pouch and rolled his shoulders as the extra mana flowed through his veins. Thrusting his staff in the ground, he gathered his will and focused it all on the Veil, summoning a firestorm from the Fade to rain down on the battlefield. 

The spell left him winded, so he paused a moment to take in the scene as stone and fire fell whistling from the sky to pummel the enemies on the field. 

They were doing better than expected, and he started to think maybe they would survive this. They’d managed to clear the majority of the Templars up to this point, leaving a pair of behemoths and just a few remaining knights. Nothing they couldn’t handle, surely. 

Blackwall and Bull were engaging one of the behemoths and a couple of knights, aided by Dorian and the ghostly spirits of a few fallen Red Templars. Cullen was facing down the other behemoth on his own, so Owain rushed back to support him. 

He reached his hand forward and summoned ice from the ground, freezing the creature’s legs where it stood. It stumbled and screeched in frustration as Cullen attacked with his sword and shield. Owain cast an ice spike through its torso, and it screamed again in agony. 

As he prepared to cast another, he felt a shockwave pulse through him, a familiar, horrifying pull in the pit of his stomach. A deadening of his senses, and he knew what it was. A spell purge, severing his connection to the Fade, interrupting his magic. He barely had time to curse before he turned and noticed the Red Templar leader pulling his hammer back for a massive swing. 

He did the only thing he could think of, which was to raise his staff to block it. But with no barrier or supporting magic, it was no match for the Templar’s enhanced strength. The hammer ripped through his guard, shattering his staff to splinters in his hands. Its momentum barely slowed, the weapon hit Owain squarely in the chest. 

He felt his armor crumple, heard the sickening snap of his own bones and felt a blinding pain blossom through his chest. He didn’t even have time to fall to the ground. The Templar followed the blow with a shield bash that sent him skidding across the paving stones. 

Pain overloaded his senses, blocking out all other thoughts. He could see the Templar bearing down on him, a sneer twisting his ugly, lyrium-covered face. Owain struggled to get up but couldn’t, struggled to crawl away, but couldn’t. He thought of the knife at his belt, his only remaining weapon. He made to reach for it, but his hands wouldn’t budge, his limbs apparently no longer responding to the commands of his brain. 

_Well, shit,_ he thought. _This is how it ends._ There was ringing in his ears, and he seemed acutely aware of the pounding of his heart, but everything else seemed to happen at half-speed. He saw the Templar pull his weapon back again, and he waited for the final blow. Shouldn’t his last thought be something pleasant? That’s all he had now. He thought of Cassandra, of course. He could just picture her slow smile, eyes still sleepy as she lay beside him in his bed, that braid still curled around her shoulder…

So he waited, but death didn’t come. Instead, he saw the Templar fall to his knees and his hammer drop to the ground. A sudden blade pierced the knight’s neck with a spatter of dark blood, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he fell face first to the earth. Death had come for him instead. 

Cullen was suddenly upon him, rolling him carefully onto his back, his face stricken with fear, mouth open like he was shouting, shouting something Owain couldn’t hear. _You have to speak up, Commander, I can’t hear you,_ he thought instead of speaking, because his mouth had stopped working. 

He didn’t even hurt anymore. His body had gone numb. His vision grew dim around the edges, black spots blurring his sight. 

_Pleasant thoughts,_ he reminded himself. And then he saw no more.


	21. The Ones We Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owain works through the stages of grief, while his friends take him to task.

Owain woke in his own bed at Skyhold and couldn’t recall how he got there. He fluttered his eyes open and tried to get his bearings, momentarily blinded by the ray of sunlight that fell across his eyes. 

The last thing he remembered was the battle outside the Shrine of Dumat--the spell purge, the Red Templar, Cullen’s face hovering over him. He had thought he was dying, though that clearly hadn’t happened. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” said Dorian from near the windows, where he was pulling back the thick velvet curtains. 

Owain blinked mutely at him, opening his mouth to respond but finding his throat too dry to speak. Dorian handed him a glass of water, helping him tip it carefully toward his lips.

“How,” Owain began, coughing as his vocal cords came back to life. “How did I get back here?”

“With great difficulty, I assure you,” Dorian replied, stepping back to replace the glass on the bedside table. “You’re incredibly lucky, Trevelyan, has anyone ever told you that? Lucky that Cullen managed to kill that Templar before he could finish you off, and that I had enough mana left to stabilize your condition until the healers arrived.”

Owain remembered his injuries then and reached a hand up to his chest. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but cloth bandages were wrapped tightly around his torso. He gingerly pressed his fingers to his collarbone and winced at the sore flesh he found there. 

“What was the damage?” he asked, looking up at his fellow mage. 

“A broken collarbone, dislocated shoulder. I don’t even know how many broken ribs. You’re fortunate you didn’t puncture a lung, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Shit,” Owain breathed.

“Indeed. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to set that many bones?”

“How long has it been?” Owain asked, now probing the outlines of his ribs through the dressings. “I don’t remember any of it.”

“You were heavily sedated,” Dorian explained. “The healing process for injuries such as these can be rather painful. We did try waking you at one point, but you weren’t... in full possession of your senses, let's say.”

Owain struggled to lift himself to a sitting position but stopped at the dull pain that throbbed in his upper body when he tried to move. He grimaced and clutched again at his chest.

“Easy,” Dorian said, reaching out to assist, propping pillows behind Owain’s shoulders. “We've repaired your bones, but you still have significant bruising, and your muscles are weakened. It will take time to fully recover.”

“How long?” Owain asked as he settled back on the pillows.

“I'd give it a few more weeks.”

Owain sighed with frustration and mentally decided he would beat that estimate. He let his eyes wander the room, surveying the familiar surroundings, and he was startled to find that the two of them were not alone. In an armchair by the fire, Cassandra sat with an open book in her hand. As if sensing his eyes on her, she looked up, and he averted his gaze, bringing it back to Dorian with an accusatory glare.

“Oh, don't look at me like that,” Dorian sniffed. “She threatened violence, and I refuse to take a punch for your pride.”

Owain rubbed the back of his hand along his jaw and frowned at the growth he felt there. Self-conscious now, he reached up to touch his hair. 

“Don’t bother,” Dorian waved. “It’s not going to help. Besides, she’s already been here for days.”

Owain combed it with his fingers anyway, while Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and studied him with a curious look.

“You know, you might want to consider the beard,” he said, tucking a hand under his chin in thought. “It’s actually not a bad look.”

Owain grinned mischievously and turned his head to the side, framing his jaw with his fingers. “Oh? Does it made me roguishly handsome?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “I see your terrible sense of humor has returned. If you're well enough to be making jokes, you're well enough for me to leave.” 

He turned to go, pausing at the foot of the bed to add, “I'll send some food up from the kitchens and have a healer check on you in a few hours.”

Ignoring Owain’s protests, Dorian swept toward the stairs, greeting Cassandra with a nod as he passed.

“Seeker.”

“Tevinter.”

Owain watched the door close behind Dorian and then dragged his eyes back to Cassandra. He could feel her watching him. Their eyes met for the first time in what felt like forever, and a riot of emotions swirled in his heart. Apprehension, relief, love--it was all there.

She walked slowly around the bed and perched on its edge beside him, setting down the book she was reading. He noticed the familiar cover. 

“More _Swords and Shields_?” he asked, nodding at the dog-eared volume.

“Not more,” she replied. “The one you gave me is still the latest.”

Owain couldn't help smiling at the memory. “I guess we have been keeping Varric busy the past few months. Perhaps I should just leave him at Skyhold and order him to write.”

Cassandra didn’t reply, but tilted her head and ran her eyes over him appraisingly. 

He fell silent and watched her, waiting. She looked tired, the strain of restless nights showing in the shadows under her eyes, and he wondered just how many hours she had spent curled up in that chair.

She extended a bare hand and ran the tips of her fingers along his jaw. He flinched a bit at her touch and hated himself for it. 

“It does,” she concluded, looking at him with a hint of a smile.

He furrowed his brow at her, confused. “What?”

“The beard.”

Surprised, he smirked in response, but even that slowly fell away as he looked into her eyes. He forgot he was supposed to be angry with her. Gone was the cold fury, the mask he had worn the last time they spoke. It was all gone, replaced with the honest pain and longing that filled his heart. 

Maker, he missed her. How long had it been since they’d touched?

Impulsively, he reached up and took her hand, relishing the feel of her cool, calloused fingers in his. He closed his eyes and slowly pressed his lips to her knuckles.

When he looked up, her face was a storm of raw emotion. She looked torn, as if she couldn’t decide whether to kiss him or throttle him. In the end, she did neither, taking a ragged breath and drawing her hand back, casting her eyes away instead. 

She cleared her throat before speaking. “You almost got yourself killed,” she declared, launching the sentence like an opening salvo.

The blame in her tone set him on edge. “Didn’t they tell you what happened?” he returned defensively. “It was an ambush. We were trapped.”

“You should never have left here without me.”

“What, you don’t think we can survive without you?” he replied, annoyed at the implication. “We handled it, Cassandra.”

“At nearly the cost of your life. The anchor is vital to our mission, Inquisitor. You cannot afford to take such risks.”

 _Inquisitor._ She knew exactly where to slip the knife. “Right,” he said, letting his expression harden and his voice drip venom. “The _anchor_ is vital. Of course. So we’re back to that now?”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Fine. _You_ are vital. Irreplaceable. I will not stand idly by and watch you throw your life away.”

“Irreplaceable? To the Inquisition, or to you?”

Her eyes went wide and then narrowed in anger. “You know the answer,” she hissed.

He did, which is why he was flinging it back in her face. Maker, he was being ridiculous, and he knew it. Lashing out like a wounded animal. He ran his hands down his face and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them. 

“Forgive me, Cassandra,” he conceded after a pause. “You’re right. You don’t deserve that.”

She let out a long breath and looked down at her hands, shaking her head slowly. 

“Owain, no matter what happens between us, it pains me to see you hurt,” she said quietly. “As a Seeker, I am your best weapon against Templars, you know that. The next time you face them, when you battle Samson, take me with you, please. Let me protect you. Let me do my duty.”

There it was again. He was the Inquisitor, the anchor, a duty. Every word a stone in the wall she had built around herself, built between them. He thought they had gotten past that, but maybe they never truly did. Earnestness burned in her eyes as she looked at him, and he was powerless to deny it. He pressed his lips together and nodded his assent, not trusting his voice just then. 

They were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Owain smoothed his fingers over his sheets, trying not to wonder if they might still smell like her. 

“So,” he began a few minutes later. “Have you given more thought to what you would do as Divine? Should I support your claim?”

Cassandra blinked at him, as if surprised by his choice of subject, and took a deep breath before speaking. “I have. As I said before, the Chantry needs to change. And perhaps I should be the one to change it.”

“How would you do that?”

“The Circle of Magi needs reform, of course. I believe the mages should be able to govern themselves, with the Chantry’s help.”

“So you would reinstate the Circles?” he repeated, running through the implications in his mind. “Would they be compulsory? Would you put _me_ back in a Circle? Or the rebel mages that have been our allies?”

She made a small frustrated sound. “Of course not. You are no longer merely a mage. You are the Inquisitor. And the rebel mages would remain part of the Inquisition, if they so choose. We would remake the Circles, yes. But with greater freedoms and accountability. Not as prisons.”

“That’s... a start, I suppose,” he allowed, though not likely to be enough for Fiona or the rest of the rebels. Or even him, for that matter. “What about other rights? Would mages be able to marry? To have children and families?”

Cassandra looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. “Yes, I believe they should be permitted that much.”

Owain twisted his mouth ironically. Making Cassandra Divine would both win him those rights and render them meaningless to him. She was the only woman with whom he could ever imagine that kind of future...

“And the Templars?”

“They, too, would be reformed into a new order. They would no longer act as jailers but as protectors of the innocent. We must balance vigilance with compassion to all peoples of Thedas, mages or no.”

“So you would bring back all of the old institutions?” he asked, frowning. “Set them back to first principles?”

“I want to respect tradition, not break it,” she explained, firmly. “We can do better, and we must, but people need time to accept change, gradually. It cannot simply be forced upon them.”

“What’s to stop them from simply falling back into their old ways?” Owain pointed out. “Won’t we just end up in the same place fifty or a hundred years from now?” 

He shook his head, frowning again. “What you envision sounds good but will be difficult to achieve. And as you say, you can’t just force people into submission. It will take finesse, politics, negotiations.”

“They said what we have done with the Inquisition was impossible, too.”

He sighed, unable to deny that truth. “I just… I don’t want to see you give up everything we have for a cause that’s doomed to fail.”

She met his eyes, her gaze steady and determined. “Perhaps I will fail. I cannot know for certain. But I must try. I believe it is the Maker’s work.”

“Are there not other ways to serve the Maker?” he asked, growing desperate and grasping for other ideas. “What about the Seekers? What will become of them without you?”

“Perhaps,” she said, showing pause for the first time in their conversation. “I could still oversee their rebuilding as the Divine, though certainly I would not be so directly involved…”

He shouldn’t have been surprised that his arguments were getting nowhere. She would not be moved, not by his logic or his practical reasoning. She was stubborn and resolute as ever. He had loved her for that, once.

“Will it make you happy?” he asked quietly, a moment later.

She looked in his eyes and hesitated, grief flickering in those hazel depths, and he felt his heart break on that pause. What was worse, that she loved as he did, or that she would do nothing about it? 

“My happiness has nothing to do with it,” she replied, looking away. 

And so, neither did his. 

“Of course.” He bowed his head, defeated. _Was it some fault of his? Some flaw that made him unworthy?_

He turned away, thinking. Then he brought his eyes back to hers. He had never told her, he realized. His dreams, what he’d hoped for their future. Was it too late now?

“You know, I used to think that… Someday, after all this...” And then he trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish.

“What?” She urged him on, suddenly eager to know. “What did you used to think?”

The words caught in his throat. It was too much, exposing his most intimate desires to a hostile world, just so they could die when they hit the air. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

\--

Owain was determined to regain his strength as quickly as possible. Defying the advice of his healers, he insisted on dragging himself down to the war room to meet with his advisors, though he arrived half an hour late and sweating profusely, collapsing into a chair almost immediately inside the doors. Even so, he preferred feeling the ache of his still-healing body to the helplessness of laying in bed like an invalid. Nothing like a hammer blow to the chest to make him appreciate simple things like standing upright and walking more than a few yards without needing a break. 

Now, he was limping his way up the stairs to the rookery to meet with Leliana, glaring at the scouts and messengers that shot him sympathetic looks as they zipped up and down, or worse, offered to help. 

She was waiting for him when he reached the final landing, gesturing toward a seat she had pulled for him and offering a glass of wine that he accepted all too gratefully. She stood and watched him drain half of it, leaning against the railing and smiling mysteriously. It was quiet, except for the occasional caw of her birds among the rafters. 

“It is kind of you to come all the way here to speak with me, Inquisitor,” she drawled. “Though I would gladly have come to you.”

“But where’s the challenge in that?” Owain smiled darkly and wiped his temple on the sleeve of the loose tunic he wore over his bandages. _Maker, was it always so warm up here?_

They chatted a bit about preparations for their next assault on Corypheus, centering on a complex of elven ruins in the Arbor Wilds. He asked again about the latest scouting reports, though he had heard a summary earlier that morning. Leliana was quick to see through the pretense.

“Shall we talk about what really brings you to the rookery, Inquisitor?” she asked, folding her hands behind her back and rocking on her heels. 

Owain chuckled and looked into the bottom of his empty cup. “Why do I even bother being coy with my spymaster?”

“You and Lady Cassandra have been spending less time together in recent days,” she observed. 

“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, yes.”

“She does love you, you know. If not for you, I believe this would be a much easier decision for her. There would be no question of her pursuing the Sunburst Throne.”

“It still feels pretty easy to me,” he replied, turning the goblet in his hands.

Leliana studied him for a moment before speaking again. “Tell me, Trevelyan, what would you be doing if you had never joined the Inquisition? What were your plans for your life?” 

He frowned at her question. “Assuming I didn’t die at the Conclave?” he countered, looking her in the eyes. “Well, before the rebellion, I used to think I’d spend the rest of my days in the Circle. Maybe I’d still be in Ostwick. Or maybe I would have come to you anyway, like Fiona and the others. I’m a battlemage, a weapon. I’m sure someone would have found a use for me with all this war.”

“And what do you think about your future now? Has it not changed because of your role as the Inquisitor? Because of your relationship with Cassandra?”

Owain pressed his lips in a flat line. She was right, of course. They could joke that Leliana knew everything about everyone in the Inquisition, but it wasn’t that far from the truth.

“Perhaps you have changed her plans, too,” she continued. “I have known Cassandra for a long time, Inquisitor. All her life, she has been a warrior, a Seeker. She served, she did what was needed--that is all she has ever known. But with you, I believe she has learned there can be more to life. And that gives her pause.”

He said nothing, mulling over Leliana’s words. More than anything, he wanted them to be true. _But was it enough?_ With a grunt, he pulled himself to his feet and joined her at the railing, leaning on it with one arm and rubbing at his injured shoulder with the other. He sighed and changed the subject.

“What would you do, Leliana, if you were Divine? Isn’t your name spoken as well?”

She smiled and turned her eyes to the small altar that adorned the wall behind them. “Cassandra and I both believed in Justinia’s vision for the Chantry, though our memories of that vision may be different, as well as our methods.”

“She says she would reconstitute the Circles and bring back the Templars,” he said, looking down into the library below. “She claims things would be different, that we would have more rights, but I have a hard time believing that kind of change will last.”

“If only all of us valued our ideals as much as Cassandra,” Leliana replied. “The Chantry needs to change--on that much, we agree. But the time has passed for the Circle of Magi and the Templar Order as we knew them. We must build new structures and open ourselves to all the peoples of Thedas, if the Chantry is to survive. What better time for change than after Corypheus has been defeated and when the memory of this war is still fresh?”

She went on, her voice determined, her eyes lit with a fire that was almost unnerving. 

“Justinia wanted the Chantry to grow, but her reforms never took root. She was held back by tradition and was too gentle to force change. I won’t make that mistake. I owe that to her. She started this work, and I will finish it. There are those who would cling to the old ways, of course. But they will see. I will make them see.” 

“Have you spoken to Cassandra about it?” Owain asked.

“I have,” she nodded. “Whatever happens, we will work together. If she is named, I will do all I can to support her, as she would for me.” 

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as conflicted as ever. “What do I do, Leliana? What would be best for Thedas?”

She smiled at him again, kindly now. “We all like to believe what we do makes a difference, Inquisitor, that our actions shape the world in some way. Perhaps for you that is more true than for many. But there is no shame in making a choice to be with the ones you love. That is a decision only you can make.”

He was afraid she would say something like that. 

\--

Owain chose the next day to resume his early morning walks along the battlements, hoping the cold air and solitude would be a balm to his spirits. He made it as far as Cullen’s tower and decided to stop in. There was no immediate answer to his knock, so he tried the door. It was unlocked, swinging open as he stepped inside.

He called out even though he could see the room was empty. It was still early, but perhaps he had missed Cullen after all. 

He’d turned to go when the commander’s face appeared in a hole in the ceiling, above the ladder to the loft that contained his bedroom. 

“A moment, Inquisitor.”

Owain nodded and shut the door, leaning against the wall to wait. 

True to his word, Cullen appeared a moment later, scrambling quickly down the ladder and dropping the last few rungs to stand in front of his desk. He looked as if he had dressed hastily, his shirt untucked, hair uncharacteristically mussed. It was odd to see him without armor, Owain thought. He seemed smaller somehow, more human. Owain felt suddenly guilty, like he was intruding. 

“Sorry to bother you so early. I was out for a walk and thought you might be up.”

“Not at all,” Cullen replied. “What can I do for you, Inquisitor?” He wiped his hands on his shirt, fidgeted, and then put them on his hips. It was as if he didn’t know what to do with himself without a sword on his belt. 

Again, Owain felt terrible for bringing up work at such an hour, but he was already here, and it was too late to turn back now. 

“I wanted to follow up on our mission at the Shrine,” he began. “Has there been any progress on Samson’s armor? Has Dagna made any sense of the tools we recovered?”

Cullen turned and pulled a report from one of the stacks on his desk. “Some progress, yes. She’s familiar with these lyrium-working instruments in general, though Maddox seems to have made quite a few custom modifications.” 

He handed the parchment to Owain. “It’s mostly nonsense to me, but perhaps you can make more of it than I. From what I understand, she’s working on a way to undo the enchantments that grant Samson his powers.”

Owain scanned the report, scrawled in the archanist’s crabbed handwriting. Something about the “median fissures of lyrium.” He handed it back to his commander. 

“It’s a pity Maddox thought his sacrifice was the only answer,” Cullen continued, returning the paper to its pile. “Samson may have escaped, but we’ve struck a blow. We’ve cut the Red Templars down to the core, leaving him with a severely curtailed army and enchanted armor he can’t maintain.”

“Do you think he’ll be in the Arbor Wilds, with Corypheus?”

“Almost certainly. We lost their trail at the Shrine, but our scouts have reported Red Templar activity in Southern Orlais. Corypheus seems to be massing his armies there for a major operation. With the Wardens gone and the rebel mages and Orlais allied with the Inquisition, they’re all he has left.”

Owain nodded and scratched his chin idly. “Good. I’m sure you’re looking forward to finally putting this to rest. By the way, I never thanked you for what you did back at the Shrine. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the floor.

“Ah. It was nothing, Trevelyan. I was only able to get to you in time because you’d taken out that behemoth earlier. Thank the Maker I know my way around Templar armor. And all its weak points.”

“Is that Owain?” A familiar voice called down to him from the loft, and both of them looked up. A face appeared in the hatch. It was Althea. 

Owain looked swiftly at Cullen, who was refusing to make eye contact, and then back up at Althea, and it all made a perfect kind of sense. She disappeared for a moment, and he could hear the sound of footfalls and rustling fabric. 

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited silently, squinting at Cullen, who finally met his eyes with an apologetic smile. 

Althea reappeared and swung down onto the ladder, and Owain quirked a brow at her appearance. She, too, looked like she had thrown her clothes on in a hurry, and now he had a very good idea why. Her feet were bare, and her hair floated in messy brown waves around her head. 

“Thea, I thought you were going to stay upstairs,” Cullen said as she neared the bottom. Owain’s eyebrow arched higher at the use of her nickname.

“I was,” she replied without taking her focus from her descent. “But I’m making an exception for certain pigheaded Inquisitors.”

She dropped the last handful of rungs just as Cullen had and advanced on Owain. Before he could react, she was in his face, jabbing her finger into his chest. 

“You! You fucking idiot.”

“Hey!” he protested, batting her hand away and stepping backwards. “I'm a little injured, didn’t you hear?”

“I heard. I heard you almost got your dumb ass killed.”

“Almost. Lucky your boyfriend was there to save me.”

She moved to poke at him again, but he dodged, backing up to the wall. 

Cullen reached a hand to her arm, gently. “Thea, don’t you think that’s enough?” She shrugged it off. 

“Someone has to talk sense into him,” she said fiercely, speaking over her shoulder. “Everyone else here is too in awe of the precious Herald of Andraste. But I know better.” 

She wheeled back to Owain, her hands on her hips. “What is _wrong_ with you? You have one of the best warriors in the Inquisition, a Seeker with anti-Templar powers, and you leave her behind because you’re too proud to apologize for being an ass?”

He groaned. “Maker’s breath. Does _everyone_ around here know my business?” 

“Please,” Althea scoffed. “She spent the entire time you were away stomping around the keep like an angry bronto, beating that practice dummy to pieces.”

“It’s true,” Cullen added from behind her. “The quartermaster said he had to rebuild it twice while we were gone.” They ignored him. 

“I found her nursing a bottle of wine in the tavern,” Althea continued, pointing at him again. “She said she tried to talk to you about the Divine thing, and you blew up at her. I tried to convince her you weren’t worth it, but she refused to let it go. She’s as stubborn as you are. You’re fucking perfect for each other.” 

“You don’t get it,” Owain said, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Don’t you _dare_ use the word ‘complicated,’” she warned.

“It’s--ugh!” He threw his hands up in frustration. “What do you want me to say? She wants to be Divine! And you know what? I can’t blame her. It’s the chance to change history, change the lives of millions. That’s not something you just walk away from! Not for a woman like her.”

“Have you told her how you feel?” Althea pressed on, undeterred. “Have you actually asked her to stay? Or are you too busy feeling sorry for yourself?”

“I… Thea, I can’t,” he sighed, slumping his shoulders. It was suddenly too much effort to hide the pain, so he blurted it all out. “What if it’s not enough? What if I beg and it doesn’t work? What if it _does_ work and she stays for me and regrets it? What if she ends up hating me for it?”

Althea was silent for a moment, looking at him with pity and a hint of disgust. Then she sighed and shook her head. 

“If you want to live your life in fear, Owain, that’s your choice. But you don’t have to. You can be honest with her and work it out like adults, or let her go, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. I’m telling you, that woman loves you, and if you’re going to shrink away like a coward, then you don’t deserve her.”

The heat was gone from her voice, but those final words stung more than all the shouting that came before. He stood there, dumb, not knowing what to say. She turned away from him and stepped toward Cullen, leaning her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. 

He’d been dismissed. Owain nodded to Cullen and took his leave, opening the door and stepping outside with a heavy heart. He could hear the lock click home behind him as he walked away, and it made him unspeakably sad, because it reminded him of something he had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys. This angst train is the local; we're making all the stops. But we're on the upswing now, I promise!
> 
> And thanks for your patience with my turtle writing pace. You know what they say about slow and steady...


	22. What Pride Had Wrought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love and war.

Owain gave himself a deadline. He promised himself he would make a decision about the Divine election, once they returned from the Arbor Wilds. 

Did he really have to make one? Maybe not, but as Cassandra herself had told him once, doing nothing was a kind of choice, too.

Until then, he didn’t want to think about it, and, it seemed, neither did she. So they fell into a tentative peace. He couldn’t manage to stay away from her, but at the same time, they didn’t talk about the future. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say.

Instead, they simply spent time together. He would bring his paperwork to the forge and keep her company as she wrote letters or continued her account of the Fade, or she would read in her chair by the fire while he worked at the desk in his quarters. They would talk about innocuous things- Inquisition business, their companions, preparations for the next battle. Sometimes, it almost felt like nothing had changed. Sometimes, he could almost convince himself this was good enough. 

But there were other times, moments when he would catch her looking at him with a hint of sadness in her eyes, a ghost of desire and longing that would seem to disappear as she turned her gaze away. It made his heart squeeze in his chest, and then he would look at her just the same way. 

Because no matter what lies he told himself, things weren’t the same. In all the time they spent together, at no point did he try to touch her, to rekindle the physical intimacy of their relationship. Not because he didn’t want to, because _fuck, he wanted to._ But it was only going to make things worse—make his decision more fraught and their possible—no, _probable_ —separation all the more difficult. At least, that’s what he told himself. In truth, he was so Maker-damned desperate around her already that his pride demanded he draw a line somewhere. On this, he was determined. If she wanted him, she would have to come to him. 

Other than reading and doing paperwork, they would spar together as he recovered from his injuries. The last time had been in the practice yard at Skyhold. He had thrown his coat aside and rolled up his sleeves, swinging his new staff and admiring its balance and heft in his hands, its perfect resonance and attunement to his mana. 

He had commissioned this staff specially after extensive consultations with Dagna and Harritt, determined to avoid a repeat of the battle at the Shrine of Dumat. Dragonbone, courtesy of a Ferelden Frostback they felled in the Hinterlands, turned out to be the answer- strong but lightweight and innately suited to the fire magic he preferred.

Cassandra had faced him in a battle stance, holding a practice sword and shield, bristling with her usual impatience. He rolled his shoulders and squared himself in front of her, casting a protective barrier that shimmered in the surrounding air. 

He made the first move, going for a direct strike that she blocked easily. He dodged her counterattack, and they circled each other, slowly and deliberately. He couldn’t help smiling, for this was a dance he loved.

They exchanged more blows, Owain spinning and thrusting with his staff, Cassandra parrying and blocking with her sword and shield. Give and take, give and take. Their breaths became quicker, white fog drifting, weapons whistling and singing as they sliced the crisp winter air. Their feet traced improvised patterns into the cold, hard earth. 

Her sword caught an opening at his hip, bringing down his barrier in a burst of light. He stepped back, jolted by the recoil. 

“You still favor your left side,” she pointed out, nodding at his recently healed injuries. “It makes you predictable and leaves you open on the right.”

Owain grunted in response and refreshed his barrier, trying to maintain his focus. He mixed in more magic, throwing flames and stonefists along with the jabs and swipes of his blade. He blocked an attack with his guard and fadestepped to her flank, swinging his staff at her feet. He knew almost instinctively which way she would jump. And when she did, he stepped to the opposite side, pushing with his staff and sweeping with his leg, tipping her off balance just enough. 

She landed on her back, and before she could rise, his blade flashed near her throat. She froze, a scowl on her lips. 

He couldn’t believe he had won- the first time since his injury, and a rare occasion even when he was perfectly healthy. Owain smirked and raised his weapon, offering his hand to help her to her feet.

“I was going easy on you,” she scoffed, as she brushed dust from her armor.

“Maybe you don’t need to,” he replied, his mouth still curved in triumph. 

She snorted but smiled slightly as she adjusted her grip on her sword, resetting her fighting stance. Owain readied himself to go again. 

Ice armor this time, laying down mines for her to weave around, slicks of frozen mud to avoid. But she came at him hard and fast, finding power and speed that defied his best attempts to slow her down. His attacks gave way to defense, his dodging turned to blocking, and before long, her shield was smashing through his armor. 

It was his turn to end up on the ground. She tackled him, knocking the staff from his hands and laying him out flat, pinning him beneath her and holding her sword at his neck, panting and grasping the hilt with both hands.

Owain rolled his eyes back in his head, trying to find the breath she had knocked from his lungs. When he found it, he laughed, shaking his head. 

“I take it back. Go back to going easy on me. I liked that better.”

Cassandra dropped the threat of her blade and sat back, catching her breath and smiling at her own victory, in spite of herself. But she didn’t get up immediately. Instead, her look softened and a surprising heat crept into her eyes as they locked on his. The smirk fell from his face as he watched her, his jaw going slack and his eyes blinking in disbelief. 

He was caught up in that look, in her, and his awareness of the world seemed to fade around him. How many times had he looked up at her from this exact position? How many times had he imagined it since? It brought up every memory of what they once were, flooding his senses. Forgetting himself, he put a hand on the curve of her hip. She didn’t stop him. He sat up and raised his other hand toward her face. 

“Cassandra, I…” 

He might have kissed her then, if she had hesitated another second. So deep had he fallen into the glow of her hazel eyes, the warm weight of her body on his. 

But instead, she gasped and flowed suddenly to her feet. She tossed her practice sword in the dirt and stalked off toward the forge without another word, leaving him empty-handed and reeling.

It was mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity and an instant, both at once. 

He thought he heard laughing, as if from a distance. The Iron Bull’s low chuckle and Sera’s shrill giggle. He couldn’t bring himself to care, didn’t even bother looking in their direction. 

He sighed and ran his hand across his forehead. Then he picked himself up and went to collect his staff and coat. 

They stopped sparring, after that.

—

The Arbor Wilds were unlike anywhere he had ever been before. The forests were full of strange plants and trees and teeming with odd fauna: wide-eyed lizards with frills around their necks, birds dressed in every color of the rainbow, insects that seemed too big to be real. 

Owain stood outside his tent, pitched on a rise at the rear of the camp, and surveyed the scene, a typical morning in an Inquisition war camp: soldiers and scouts hurrying to their posts, breakfast cooking around the fires. With winter in full force everywhere else in Thedas, the climate in southern Orlais was downright balmy, he thought, running his hand over the back of his neck, which was already sticky with the humidity. 

Having amassed their allies and resources here in hopes of a decisive win, the Inquisition had been battling the remainder of Corypheus’s army, beating them back along the river, working their way toward the temple for the elven goddess Mythal that lay at the heart of the Wilds. 

Their best intelligence indicated that Corypheus was after an ancient elven artifact in the temple, an eluvian, a kind of magic mirror that formed a portal to other locations and potentially to the Fade itself. Morrigan, Empress Celene’s “pet apostate,” as Vivienne termed her, had brought an eluvian to Skyhold and taken him through it to a kind of crossroads between worlds. He had to agree that such a thing should not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. 

Owain was itching for a chance to face Corypheus head on, to bring this all to an end. The Wilds were crawling with his Red Templars, but he had yet to show himself. That might be about to change, however. Owain could have sworn he heard the screech of a dragon earlier that morning. 

He looked at the men and women gathered around the cookfires, preparing their weapons and armor. Orlesian chevaliers fought alongside rebel mages, Inquisition regulars and mercenaries marched with hardened Grey Wardens. All the people he had recruited along the way had come together under one banner. Rather impressive, if he stopped to think about it, though he had to give most of the credit to his advisors. Without Josephine’s diplomacy, they would be alone here, and without Cullen’s strict discipline, it would have fallen apart before it even started. Not to mention the valuable information fed to them by Leliana’s scouts and spies. The Inquisition had come a long way. _He_ had come a long way. 

Cullen was standing with Althea outside his tent, in front of the table strewn with maps and papers that served as his office here in the field. Owain watched as they discussed something animatedly—or, at least, Althea was animated. Cullen merely shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, which seemed to annoy her more. Still, he stood and listened, never taking his eyes from her face. Wise, Owain thought. He never could stop himself from shouting back with Althea, and it had always made things worse. He looked away as Cullen wrapped her in his arms and leaned down for a kiss...

His eyes searched for Cassandra, with whom he never felt like shouting. He found her sitting on a wooden bench near one of the campfires, polishing her sword. He turned and made his way toward her. 

She glanced up at him as he approached but said nothing, keeping her attention on her task, holding up the blade to examine the edge in the sunlight. He sat astride the bench beside her, watching her as she worked.

The sun turned the ends of her dark hair to warm brown, the light skimming the planes and angles of her face. Despite time and familiarity and their current state of… whatever… her beauty had never dimmed for him. She frowned in concentration, and a tiny crease appeared between her brows. He was struck by the sudden urge to smooth it with his fingertips. 

A small smile played at his lips as he studied her. No matter what was happening in the rest of their relationship, it had felt _good_ to fight beside her again the past few days. Their love had been forged on the battlefield, and he knew he could always trust her to have his back there, at least. That hadn’t changed, and he hoped it never would. 

The anchor flared green on his left hand then, and he balled it into a fist, gritting his teeth to ride out the pulsing pain. The episodes had grown more frequent lately, and more intense. Just when he thought he was getting used to them, they would get worse. 

Cassandra paused and shot him a sympathetic look. For a moment, he wished she would take his hand into hers, and then he immediately banished that thought.

“It hurts you,” she said, not as a question, but as a statement.

He said nothing at first, just squeezed his hand again and shook it out. 

“It’s an awful lot of trouble, really, just to get to the Fade,” he said a moment later, watching the anchor continue to shimmer. “And then all this with the eluvians. Sometimes I wish I could just let Corypheus have it. Would make things a lot easier.”

Cassandra was quiet, her eyes, like his, mesmerized by the otherworldly light of the mark. As always, she heard what he meant behind the words he spoke. 

“It’s almost over, Inquisitor. We will defeat him here and bring an end to this madness.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But I wonder sometimes, what will happen after. Corypheus said the anchor was permanent. What happens when he’s gone and all the rifts are closed? Will it fade? Will it disappear? Or am I destined to have this thing on my hand forever?”

“I do not know,” she admitted. “No one knows, not even Solas.” She looked up into his eyes. “But we will find out, together, when this is over.” 

“Will we?” he asked, arching a brow and meeting her gaze. “Won’t you be busy when this is over? Doing... whatever it is the Divine does?” The words tumbled out, and he mentally kicked himself for it. He wasn’t supposed to talk about this. 

“That is far from certain,” she said, looking down at the sword in her hands. “The clerics could—”

“Oh, come on,” he interjected, suddenly tired of hearing her question herself. “You’re the best for the job, Cassandra, and you know it. Even I do, at some level.” 

And he did, if he was honest with himself, though he hadn’t been until now. But what was there to question? He looked at her, at the woman he loved, and thought about everything he admired about her. Cassandra was good and brave and bold. She would do what needed to be done, as always. The Chantry could use someone like that. They all could.

“Is that what you truly want?” Her eyes filled with rare emotion, and he couldn’t stand it. 

_No. Fuck, no. Stay with me, never leave._ He wanted to shout it, but he didn’t. “You would be good for Thedas, Cassandra,” he said instead, looking away and willing his voice to be steady. “I might as well get used to the idea…” That last part was more for himself than for her.

“You’re no longer angry with me?”

He closed his eyes and waited a long breath before opening them and turning to her again. “I was never really angry. Not at you.”

 _Maker, what an idiot._ He hadn’t meant to say any of that. Now her eyes were shining at him, searching him, and he was afraid they would uncover the truth. Another moment would unravel his self-control. He would say—or do—something he’d regret. Even more than he already had.

He cleared his throat to change the subject. “Anyway, first things first. We still have an ancient Tevinter magister in our way, not to mention his pet dragon and the Red Templars.”

“I hear you have a strategy to defeat Samson’s armor.”

Owain put his hand inside his coat and from an inner pocket he drew out the rune Dagna had crafted using the remnants of Maddox’s tools. It was small, about the size of his palm, with red markings that seemed to shift and glow in the sunlight. He handed it to her. She turned it over a few times in her hands before passing it back to him. 

“How does it work?”

“It was explained to me, but I’m not sure I understood well enough to repeat it,” he answered. “Though I trust our archanist has done her research. The only downside is that it requires physical contact with the armor itself. Which means we will have to get rather close to Samson to activate it.”

“Do not worry about that, Inquisitor,” she reassured him, her voice steady and strong, her hand wrapped tightly around her sword. “We will cut you a path. That is what we are here for.”

He knew what she was saying behind the words and could think of no adequate response. Her eyes seemed to pierce his soul, and this time, he couldn’t tear himself away. 

Someone cleared their throat nearby, and only then did he look up. It was Cullen. 

“Inquisitor. I don’t mean to interrupt. But Corypheus has been sighted at the temple. It’s time to go.”

Owain nodded and glanced back at Cassandra one more time.

“Then let’s go.”

—

They fought their way through the Temple of Mythal, a maze-like complex of open courtyards and stone passageways covered in statues and intricate mosaics honoring the gods of ancient elves. They watched Corypheus die and resurrect himself in horrific fashion from the body of a fallen Grey Warden. They walked the pilgrim’s path, completing rituals to reach the heart of the temple and make a pact with its protectors. They survived demons and Red Templars, Corypheus’s lyrium dragon, and Morrigan and Solas sniping at each other over elven history. 

They learned that the treasure hidden in the temple wasn’t an eluvian at all, but a source of wisdom known as the Well of Sorrows. This was what Corypheus had come for. This is what the elven sentinels and the rituals were meant to protect. For Owain, this knowledge changed little. They had come to defeat Samson and thwart Corypheus, and those goals were unchanged. 

Exhausted by their journey through the temple, they stepped into the final courtyard and were relieved to finally see the Well at the far end. In between, however, stood Samson and a squad of Red Templars, ready for battle. 

“Inquisitor!” Samson called, his arms held wide in mock welcome. He spotted Cullen at Owain’s side and grinned menacingly. “And Knight-Captain Cullen. I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you here. With all your tough talk about mages being less than human, I never thought I’d see you following one.”

Owain frowned and glanced quickly at his commander. On Cullen’s other side, he could see Althea doing the same. 

“I’m not a Templar anymore, Samson,” Cullen replied firmly, meeting the gaze of his former comrade and gripping the hilt of his sword. “No more lyrium, no more leash.”

“Hah! You haven’t changed at all, Knight-Captain,” Samson sneered. “Still serving Andraste’s puppet, still a dog of the Chantry.”

“I’d rather serve the Inquisition than an evil like Corypheus.”

“I serve a god!” Samson bellowed, shaking his fist at them. “He chose me, did you know that? Twice. First to be his general, and now as the vessel for the Well of Sorrows. I will carry its power to him. With this wisdom, we will scour the world. He will breach the Fade, even without your precious anchor, Inquisitor.”

“Your friend Maddox is dead, Samson,” Owain said. Fighting seemed inevitable, but, just maybe, words could diffuse the situation. Or, at the very least, distract. “He gave his life for you. Is Corypheus really worth it?”

“Then he died as one of us!” Samson replied, unfazed. “One of the faithful. _You_ are the ones who killed him. His death is on _your_ hands.” He drew his sword and pointed it at Owain. “Enough talking. I will claim the Well for Corypheus, and you will not stand in my way. Kill them! Kill them all!”

Owain’s party formed up quickly. Cassandra, Cullen, and Blackwall stood in a defensive line while the mages cast barriers and readied their spells. He counted about ten Templars, a mix of knights and ranged horrors. They were outnumbered, but not terribly so. The biggest challenge would be Samson himself. The Red Templar general stood at the rear, his greatsword raised and his armor giving off the glowing stench of red lyrium. 

They had to thin the herd before they could deal with Samson. Owain nodded to Solas and cast a pull of the abyss on the oncoming knights. The elf followed with a weakening spell, and Althea went next, trapping their foes in a static cage. With a chilling war cry, the warriors pushed forward, surging toward the weakened Templars with a fury. 

Owain wove in and out of the line of warriors, doing what he could to support, keeping their barriers up, freezing with his mines and protecting their flanks with fireballs and ice. As always, battle had a kind of rhythm for him, thrumming through his blood to the beat of clashing metal. 

He looked up as a ball of burning red lyrium crashed into Blackwall’s shield, breaking into smoking chunks that smoldered on the ground. It was just the first of many, as more of the same projectiles came whistling toward them. Cassandra batted one away with her shield, while Cullen dodged another before driving his sword into the helmet of a Templar knight. 

Owain scanned the field and saw that the source of the lyrium was a cluster of horrors at the other end of the courtyard. He caught Althea’s attention, and she nodded her understanding. 

They fadestepped their way across the yard, avoiding the battling knights and warriors. Owain landed among the horrors and dropped a set of ice mines that left them frozen in place. Althea appeared beside him and slashed her spectral blade into one of them where neck met shoulder, nearly hacking him in two. Meanwhile, Owain turned to the horror beside him and shot a stonefist at point blank range. It hit the Templar in the chest and shattered him, sending him crumpling to the ground. Owain snapped his fingers and immolated the remains. 

Althea called to him, and he looked up to find that the third horror had freed itself from the ice and was bearing down on him with its claws. He ducked aside and brought his staff up to catch the blow on his grip, following with a kick to the gut that created some much-needed space. He conjured a great shard of ice and drove it through the Templar’s torso. Almost at the same time, Althea’s glowing blade sliced across its neck and took off its head, which rolled to the ground with a sickening thump. 

Owain paused for a breath and leaned on his staff, chest heaving, and nodded at Althea as the body of the last horror slumped to the ground between them. She pressed her lips in a grim line and brushed stray hair from her eyes as she refreshed her blade and their barriers. 

He turned to look back at his companions. Blackwall and Solas were mopping up the rest of the remaining knights, but Cassandra and Cullen were dueling Samson, and they were struggling. His sword rang off their shields, and though they strained visibly with the effort, he shrugged off their attacks like nothing. Samson’s armor was still active, and as long as that was the case, they didn’t stand a chance. Owain touched his hand to his coat and knew he had to get close enough for the rune to do its work. 

He signaled to Althea and adjusted his hold on his staff, cloaking himself in ice armor in addition to his barrier. They made their way toward the warriors, flinging fire and lightning along the way. Just like the physical blows, however, magic seemed to glance off Samson's armor, leaving not even a scratch. As they approached the fray, Samson swung his greatsword and powered past Cullen's parry, sinking the tip into the Commander's thigh. Cullen cried out and sank to his knee, fighting to keep his shield up.

Owain heard Althea gasp and felt her fadestep past him, materializing between Samson and her lover. 

"Thea, no!" he shouted, as if that would have stopped her. 

She met the Templar's blade with her own, the clash sending out sparks of ethereal blue. With a grunt, she pushed him back, but when he swung again, she was no match for his lyrium-fueled strength. Deflected by her block, the sword bounced off course but still managed to bite deep into her arm, throwing her back with the force of her broken barrier.

She ended up on the ground beside Cullen, clutching at her wound, glaring in pained defiance. The hilt of her spectral blade was still in her hands, the blade itself having flickered out with the shock of her injury. Samson laughed and stepped toward the two of them. 

“Witness the power of Corypheus!” he crowed.

"Fuck," Owain swore under his breath, fadestepping toward Samson, putting himself in front of Cullen and Althea. Cassandra had the same thought and beat him there, taking the force of the Templar's next blow squarely on her shield. She winced at the impact and fixed him with a look. 

"The rune," she said, simply, and he nodded. He felt a brief pang of guilt at leaving her to face Samson alone, but he reminded himself this was no time for chivalry.

He dodged around the Templar's attack and stepped to Samson’s flank, drawing the rune from his pocket as he moved. Cassandra gave a great cry and charged at him. The point of her sword lodged in his armor, but Samson merely smiled, grasping the blade with his gloved hand. The armor seemed to pulse with red lyrium energy. It traveled down the length of her weapon, and she cried out, relinquishing her grip and stumbling backwards. 

Panic flooded Owain's brain as he saw Cassandra fall, but he grit his teeth and forced himself to stick to his task, to not waste the opening she had bought. He stepped forward and lunged at Samson, holding out the rune and affixing it to the back of Samson's plate before rushing toward Cassandra where she knelt on the ground, holding her injured sword arm.

The rune’s effect was immediate. The red glow that had suffused the armor dimmed and blinked out, leaving ordinary-looking steel in its place. Samson howled with rage and disbelief.

"My armor! My power! What have you done?"

He wheeled about and fixed his eyes on Owain. 

"You!" he shouted and began advancing on him. 

Owain stood his ground, keenly aware of Cassandra’s vulnerable condition behind him. He gathered the remains of his mana, summoning flames and a stonefist that hit the Templar in the chest and shoulder, slowing but not stopping him. 

Samson laughed again, and cold fear seemed to seep into Owain's blood. 

"I don't need my armor to deal with mages like you," he sneered. Then he held out his palm, and that familiar, sickening wave hit Owain in the stomach, and he could feel his connection to the Fade being snuffed out.

He barely had time to think “not again” before Samson was upon him, swinging his sword at Owain's head. He dodged, but just barely, and brought his staff up to block the next attack. The impact sent shocks down his arms, almost buckling his knees. Even without his invulnerable armor, the Templar was strong, and the spell purge had left Owain weakened. At least his staff had held, this time.

But he wouldn't last long, not like this. A few more hits had him collapsing to the ground. He considered his dwindling options as Samson advanced again, laughing that laugh Owain had come to hate. He had to stop Samson from reaching his injured companions, from reaching Cassandra. But how? Without his magic, what did he have left? He looked down at the anchor, flickering faintly in his palm. Perhaps he could use that again?

He didn't have time to find out. As Samson raised his sword for what might have been a killing blow, his body suddenly seized mid-action. He seemed to freeze, his mouth hanging open in a soundless scream, his eyes rolling up and back in his head. His hand went slack and the sword fell clattering from his grip.

Owain swiveled his head, looking for the cause of this sudden reversal, and his eyes locked on Cassandra, who was on her feet now, walking slowly past him. Her eyes glowed a strange blue as they focused on the Templar, and her lips moved with a whispered chant. Supported by her left hand, her right arm was outstretched, fingers curled in a loose fist.

All he could do was watch in fearful awe as Cassandra made full use of her Seeker powers. _Maker, she’s magnificent,_ he thought, as he watched her bring Samson to his knees. The Templar fell unconscious to the ground, and only then did she let up, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion and her eyes regaining their normal color. 

Owain wanted to take her in his arms, but he was so drained himself that it was all he could manage to stumble toward her and clap his hand on her shoulder, letting his eyes express wordless thanks.

Cullen limped past them, his wound closed by Solas's healing magic. He knelt next to Samson and checked his pulse, satisfied to find it still beating.

"We should take him alive and return him to Skyhold for judgement," he advised.

Owain simply nodded, amazed that his commander could think so rationally after the battle they had just survived.

A dragon’s shriek rent the air, heralding the presence of Corypheus and reminding them all of where they were and why they were there.

"Inquisitor,” Solas said. “The Well. We must hurry." 

Owain nodded and shook himself, taking up his staff and holding it tightly, still feeling the effects of Samson's spell purge. Leaving Cullen and Blackwall to handle the Red Templar, he hurried across the yard, leaping up the steps that lead to the Well. The Well itself looked like a rather ordinary pool of water, its surface still and mirror-like, its shallow depths lifeless and clear as crystal. There was an eluvian at the far side, almost an afterthought.

As he stood there wondering what to do, a raven flew past him and changed form, revealing itself to be Morrigan as it landed at the water’s edge.

"Nice of you to join us again," he said, openly annoyed at her convenient reappearance after the imminent danger had passed.

Morrigan brushed it aside. “We don’t have time for that. We must claim the power of the Well, Inquisitor. Corypheus must not be allowed to take it. If I may, I volunteer myself for this task.”

“Wait,” Owain paused, furrowing his brow skeptically. “Why you?” Morrigan’s motives were always shrouded in mystery, and he didn’t trust her to have their interests at heart, no matter what she might say. 

“Why not me?” she shrugged, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I have the knowledge and the magical training to make use of the wisdom of the Well, and I will use it to aid you in your quest to defeat your enemy.”

“We don’t even know what this Well contains,” he argued. “If it should be a mage that drinks from it, why not me? Or Solas?”

He turned to his companions. 

“Do not ask me, Inquisitor,” Solas replied with a note of sadness, or perhaps warning, in his voice. 

“Don’t drink, Trevelyan,” Cassandra added with concern in her eyes. “It is not worth the risk. Power rarely comes without a cost.”

“I am willing to bear such a cost,” Morrigan said, jumping in again with her offer. 

Owain racked his tired brain for answers. Surely there was some kind of catch here. Harnessing this ancient wisdom could not be as simple as it appeared. But what were his options? What was least risky to him?

The dragon roared again, and they ducked reflexively as its wings beat the air overhead. The creature flew low this time, spitting a gout of red lyrium that toppled columns at the edge of the courtyard. He had no time to debate this. 

“Fine, Morrigan. Do it. Drink from the well.”

She smiled slightly and nodded, turning to step into the pool. They watched as she submerged herself, a bright light illuminating the water as she dipped her head below the surface. When the light subsided, the water was gone, and Morrigan stood in the center of the empty Well. 

At that moment, the lyrium dragon landed with a crash in the center of the courtyard, and out of the dust stalked Corypheus himself. 

“No!” he screamed, his face twisted with fury. He rushed toward their position at the Well. 

“Come! Quickly!” Morrigan beckoned them toward the eluvian on the other side of the Well and stepped through it. 

They had no choice but to follow. As much as Owain longed to face his enemy, he was in no condition to fight. He waited, waving the others through first. Blackwall and Cullen supported Samson’s limp form between them. 

Just as Corypheus reached the stairs to the Well, Owain stepped through the mirror. He stepped into the crossroads, that space between worlds, where the silence seemed to swallow him whole, silence that was punctuated only by the distant sound of breaking glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M STILL HERE, GUYS. Sorry about the slow updates and for leaving my boy in the dumpster for so long. Real life getting in the way of Important Things like writing. Boo. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	23. More Than Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing a new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW (!)

“Owain, wait.”

He paused at the entrance to his quarters and turned to see Cassandra calling to him from across the great hall. Curious, he ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the door to wait for her. 

They had returned to Skyhold hours ago thanks to the magic of the eluvians, but that time had been busy: securing Samson in the dungeons, a debriefing in the war room, and sending birds to Josephine and their remaining troops in the Arbor Wilds to inform them of the change in plans. He had just come from wolfing down a quick meal in the kitchens and was looking forward to some much needed rest. 

And yet, here was the Seeker. Like him, she was still in her armor, which did nothing to obscure the hypnotic sway of her hips as she moved toward him. He was far too tired now to suppress the stray thoughts that clouded his mind as he watched her approach, so he simply stopped trying. 

She halted in front of him, and he pulled his mouth in a small smirk, the question he wanted to ask written in the angle of his brows. 

She answered by tipping her head toward the door, looking unusually nervous. She bit her lip slightly, and it was more distracting than it should have been. 

“Can we talk?”

His smirk hitched a bit higher, and he twinkled his eyes at her. 

“You mean... privately?”

She snorted, but he was already opening the door and holding it for her, letting her pass before following. 

He fished the key from his pocket and was just fitting it into the lock, but she didn’t let him finish before she pulled him around, grasping the lapels of his coat and drawing his face down to meet hers. The key bounced loudly on the stone floor. 

The taste of her was both familiar and better than he remembered. He kissed her back, his tongue tangling with hers. But like a drop of water to a man lost in the desert, it threatened to overwhelm him. 

He forced himself to pull back. His self-control was swiftly fraying, but it was his only tether to rational thought, his last chance to resist the wave of desire that was surging within him. 

“Cassandra,” he whispered hoarsely, his heart thundering in his chest. “Are you sure?”

Her eyes glittered dangerously in the low light. “Stop talking,” she murmured, before yanking him close again. 

So he let go. Let the cord snap. Let himself be carried away. 

He kissed her hard, gripped her hips and pivoted, pushing her roughly against the wall, encouraged by the moan that hummed against his lips. She pulled at him with a desperation that seemed to match his own, pushed her hands under his coat and ran them over the muscles of his back, his chest, his stomach. She shoved his coat from his shoulders, and he took his hands off her only long enough to slip his arms from the sleeves, letting it slide to the floor in a heap of leather and mail. Her mouth twisted against his, greedy. She caught his lip between her teeth, making him groan at the heady mix of pleasure and pain. 

All the emotions he’d held in for weeks, the hurt, the anger, the longing, they flowed freely from him now, mixed and melted into this incandescent desire, this _want_ to possess her, to master her, to worship her, to surrender to her. Everything, all at once. 

A sharp rap against the door jolted him harshly back to reality, pulled his drowning head above the surface to register the widening gap between the door and its frame. 

“No!” He and Cassandra both shouted simultaneously, their arms shooting out to force the door shut. They stood there a moment, staring at each other breathlessly, hands still pressed against the wood. 

“I-Inquisitor?” the would-be intruder began tentatively. “I have a message from Leliana. A bird has arrived from the Wilds, and she wishes to know--”

Owain had already stopped listening. He ran his eyes brazenly over Cassandra, who looked back at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her tongue flicking lightly over her lips, still wet from their kisses. He drifted his hands up her waist and tapped a finger on her breastplate. 

“Off,” he ordered silently, jerking his head to the side and mouthing the word with a smile in his eyes. 

She curved her lips playfully and brought her hands to the buckles of her armor. Then she turned to walk backwards up the stairs, slowly, her eyes never leaving his. 

“Gregor,” Owain said, interrupting whatever it was the scout was still prattling about. 

“Y-yes, Inquisitor?” 

He stooped to locate the key on the floor and shoved it in the lock, twisting it home in a single motion before turning back to watch Cassandra continue up the stairs, dropping pieces of armor as she went. A gauntlet here, a pauldron there. 

“Tell Leliana to reply as she sees fit, and we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

“Yes, Your Worship.”

She had reached the landing and unfastened her breastplate, the last piece. It fell to the floor with a clang that seemed to echo in the narrow stairwell. 

“And Gregor?”

“Yes?” 

“If anyone else so much as knocks on this door before morning, I will have them transferred to the Fallow Mire for a month. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Worship!” He could hear the scuffle of boots as the man hurried away. 

Cassandra stood on the landing, her armor gone, about to ascend the final steps to his quarters. She shot him a sly smile over her shoulder, her eyes reflecting the flickering light of the sconces that hung every few feet along the wall. He recognized that look as a challenge, one he fully intended to meet. 

He threw her a predatory glance from the foot of the stairs. Then he leapt up the first few steps, two at a time, before fadestepping the rest of the way. He reappeared beside her, one hand catching her around the waist to pull her body flush, the other pushing into her hair to tip her face up to his, crushing the gasp that escaped her lips under the demands of his own hungry mouth. 

He backed her against the wall again, kicking her feet apart to make room for him to rock his hips against her, letting her feel the hard length of him as he pinned her against the solid stone. She moaned again and twined her legs around his, pulling him still closer. Her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He pressed his hand against the wall beside her head, the anchor glowing faintly green. The torches flared as his mana rose with the tide of his desire. 

“Did you miss me?” he growled as he brushed his lips along her jaw, following a familiar path to the pulse behind her ear. She whimpered softly and shivered under his touch. His free hand moved under her tunic, caressing the warm skin so often hidden under her cold, hard armor, and reached up to fill his palm with her breast. “Because I missed you,” he added, flicking his thumb over her nipple. 

She gasped his name and arched into him, rubbing herself against the tightness in his breeches. She moved her hands from his face to grasp the hem of her shirt and whip it over her head, letting it fall who-knows-where in the dark. 

He grinned and trailed gentle, licking kisses in a slow line down from her throat, closing his mouth over the tip of one breast while he continued to tease the other with his fingers. She cried out at the attentions of his tongue, standing on her toes and pushing up against the wall to give him better access, every part of her still desperate for more. 

With his hands on her thighs, he lifted her. She was lighter than expected without all that steel. She wrapped her legs around his hips and braced her arms on his shoulders, catching his mouth in a fierce, urgent kiss. Despite the distraction, he wobbled only slightly as he carried her up the remaining steps to his quarters. 

He deposited her on the edge of the bed and proceeded to divest himself of his clothing. She did the same, kicking off her boots and shimmying out of her leggings, all while raking her eyes over him, letting them linger on his cock as it bobbed free of his leathers. 

He would never tire of the sight of her: her long, lithe legs, her naked, toned body stretched over the smooth, clean sheets. He savored it, committed it to memory.

But even that pause was too long for Cassandra. She grumbled impatiently and hooked a leg around his knees, tipping him forward so he landed on top of her, barely catching himself with his hands. She looked up at him and smiled-- _that_ smile--and it stole the breath from his lungs. She squirmed beneath him, and he hissed at the friction, adding to the pressure that was already building in his core. 

He needed to be inside her then, and he could deny it no longer. Bracing himself over her, hips centered between her bent knees and spread thighs, he slid into her with one smooth motion, watching her eyes flutter as he filled her. 

The feeling overwhelmed him, and it wasn’t just her wet heat wrapped tightly around his cock, though that was part of it, certainly. He felt _right._ Complete in a way he hadn’t felt since he and Cassandra first quarrelled, like a lost part of him had come home. 

He shifted to lean on one elbow, freeing a hand to brush his knuckles against her cheek. His eyes searched hers as if he could see forever in their depths. 

“Cass,” he whispered without thinking. “Stay. Stay with me. Don’t go.”

Her eyes widened at him, but she said nothing. Instead, she pulled him down and kissed him, full and deep. He had not the brainpower to process what that meant.

He closed his eyes and groaned against her mouth and started moving within her. He rested his head on her shoulder as he found his rhythm, adjusting his angle to hit that spot within that never failed to please her. She wrapped her legs around his waist to take him deeper. Her gasps and moans spurred him on, her hands grasping, pulling at his hips, his back, his ass, nails leaving impressions in his flesh. It only made him burn brighter. He fucked her with abandon, snapping his hips against hers, driving her down into the mattress with each thrust. She locked her eyes on his and met his every stroke. 

They finished together, she muffling her cries by sinking her teeth into his shoulder, he giving a wordless grunt as he pushed deep and spent himself inside her. They held each other for a moment, trembling slightly as they drifted down from the heights. Then he rolled off and embraced her as they lay on their sides, pulling her back snug against his chest. Her head was pillowed against his arm, and his hand rested on her breast. 

He sighed contentedly and pressed a gentle kiss to the base of her neck, nuzzling his stubbled jaw against her damp skin. 

They were quiet for a moment as their breathing slowed. As his mind cleared, he began to think again, and questions collected in the furrow of his brows. 

“Why?” he asked quietly, to the back of her head. “Why now?”

She turned in his arms and looked at him. Her eyes shone with emotion. She brought her hands to his face, tracing his features with the tips of her fingers. 

“We faced so much death today, Owain. So much evil. I needed to remember. I needed something good.”

Her hands stilled, and she simply held them there, framing his face. 

“And today, with Samson, there was a moment when I thought… I thought that one of us might not survive. I know we have not been…” She paused, swallowing, as if the words were stuck in her throat. “I would not have your last memory of me be a bitter one.” 

Her words made him sad, but she was right. Guilt lanced through him as he remembered how he treated her, and he regretted all the time he’d wasted being frustrated and angry at the world. That was time they could have spent together, time he would never get back. There were more important things in life. 

He turned his face to press a kiss against her palm. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. For everything. I’m sorry for being an ass. I should have listened to you. I should have understood.”

She smiled sadly and brushed her thumb across his lips. “And I am sorry, Owain, for the pain I caused you. I have been alone much of my life. I am not accustomed to my decisions affecting another.”

He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers, breathing deeply, inhaling the warm, soft scent of her. Everything that mattered in the world was here in his arms. 

There was still the problem of their future, but he held it back. Not here, not now. _Tonight, let us have this._ He could deal with reality in the morning and still keep his promise to himself. 

So he pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin. Here with her, he felt safe, felt peace he hadn’t known in weeks. 

He whispered into her hair as they drifted to sleep. “You’re my good, too, Cassandra.”

\--

He woke with a start from a dreamless sleep, and it took a moment to remember where he was. Cassandra was still asleep, snoring quietly, the covers clutched in her arms. His hand was numb, but he dared not move for fear of waking her. He watched her, matching his breathing to the slow rise and fall of her chest. Maker, he’d missed this. Falling asleep tangled up with her, waking with her still in his arms. 

The sky was dark outside his windows, but he guessed it was some early morning hour. He was supposed to make a decision today. His mind ran through their conversation from last night. With a groan, he remembered how he’d asked her to stay and how she hadn’t answered. Of course not. He couldn’t ask questions like that with his cock buried in her. 

Still, doubt nagged at him. Had she refused to answer because she didn’t want to say no? He watched her eyelids shift with her sleeping thoughts and considered what she hadn’t said last night. She had apologized for how she handled it, but she hadn’t said she was changing her mind. She hadn’t said she would stay. Perhaps because she still intended to go. 

Could he live with that? Could he truly be as understanding as he should have been all along? 

He thought about the Arbor Wilds, about the battle at the Well. She was right-- they had almost been defeated. He remembered kneeling on the ground, running out of options, and waiting for that final blow. He’d been so ready to defend her, to trade his life for hers. 

Then he reflected on all the decisions he’d made as Inquisitor. How he decided to save Althea instead of pursuing the Red Templars, how he let Hawke cover their escape from the Fade. He had never been good at sacrifice. Haven was the exception, not the rule. 

He sighed deeply and studied her again, soaking in the warmth and peace of having her in his bed. If he was willing to give his life in death for Cassandra, shouldn’t he be willing to give it in living, too? Her influence had always spurred him to be a better man, and that was never more true than now. He could be better, for her. Even if it cost him a broken heart. 

He made up his mind and carefully slipped from her side, tucking in the covers to retain as much heat as possible as he rose from the bed. He stood and pulled on his breeches, brushing the hair back from his forehead. He scratched his fingers along his jaw and frowned, making a mental note to take care of that later. 

He sat at his desk and turned for a moment to consider the darkness outside his window. Then he pulled his chair forward, plucked a clean sheet of parchment from a drawer, and dipped a freshly trimmed quill into a pot of ink. 

Everything he admired about Cassandra he poured onto the page. At least, everything fit for public knowledge. Her faith, her devotion, the purity of her ideals and her unwavering determination to see them through. Her sense of justice and goodness. Her care for the people of Thedas. Her belief in the mission of the Chantry. In short, everything that would make her a perfect Divine. 

He dropped the quill on the desk and sat back when he finished, dragging his hands down his face. He stretched and shook out his cramped writing hand, rereading the page with satisfaction. Cassandra was still sleeping. Light from the rising sun had begun to color the edges of the sky. 

Too agitated to sleep now, he pushed his chair back and reached for the bottle of whiskey on the shelf above his desk. He poured himself a healthy serving and carried it out with him to the balcony. 

It was cold outside. The wind buffeted his bare skin and the stone floor was chill beneath his feet. He let his magic surge, and he was warm again despite the temperature. 

He set his glass on the balustrade and leaned his elbows against it. Clouds obscured his view of the mountains, but it hardly mattered. His mind was elsewhere. 

He reviewed his plan again. He would give her his endorsement and let her choose. He would support her no matter what she decided, but he would not try to sway her. He would not beg. He would not do that to her. 

But now that he had written the thing, his nerves were failing him. He sipped his drink and prepared himself to lose her. Tested the idea in his mind. What would his life look like? What did it mean to be Inquisitor without her by his side?

He could throw himself into work. Dedicate himself to rebuilding Thedas, crafting a world where mages could live better lives. He could find purpose in that, perhaps even work with her on that. Surely the Inquisitor and the Divine would have reason to cross paths on a regular basis? He could see her. They could talk, even if things weren’t the same. If he had to lose her as a lover, he could still have her as a friend. Right?

“Owain?”

Startled from his reverie, he turned abruptly at the sound of her voice. 

“What are you doing out here?” she asked. 

He opened his mouth to answer but was momentarily silenced by the sight of her. She was wearing his shirt, and only his shirt. He remembered that hers was somewhere in the stairwell, probably. It hung loosely on her, the open neck revealing a glimpse of her collarbone, the tails barely covering the tops of her thighs. Seeing her in his clothing did strange things to his heart. 

It did nothing, however, to keep her warm. She folded her arms over her chest and shivered as she stepped out onto the balcony. He crossed to her as if drawn by some invisible force and wrapped her in his arms. He brought his hands to her face and drew her close for a long, lingering kiss. He kissed her like it was the last time, perhaps because some part of him felt like it was. 

He pulled back and brushed wayward hairs from her forehead, letting his eyes rove over her face. He told himself to remember this moment, the way she looked, the way she felt in his arms. He stored it all up, like provisions for a long winter. 

She furrowed her brow at him, confused. “I asked what you were doing out here. The wind was blowing through the door.” 

He didn’t answer, too lost in the gravity of the moment. He warred with himself, with what he was about to do. Seeing her now, like this, his courage had ebbed. He had walked back from the edge. 

_Do it. Do it, you fucking coward._

He smiled sadly and kissed her again. _One more._ Then he took her hand and led her back inside.

“Come. I have something to show you.”

He walked to his desk and picked up the sheet of parchment covered in his words and handed it to her. She looked at him dubiously before turning her eyes to the page. 

“This is a letter,” she said as she read the header. “Addressed to the clerics at the Grand Cathedral.” She glanced up at him and frowned. 

He pressed his lips together and nodded, beckoning her to continue.

She finished reading and looked up at him, her face clouded with a storm of mixed emotions. “I don’t understand. Is all of this true? Is this how you feel?”

“Yes,” he replied, adrenaline pumping through his veins now, the only thing keeping him from shaking with fear. “You’re an amazing woman, Cassandra. And you would make an excellent Divine.”

He took the parchment from her hands as she stood there, speechless. Folding the letter, he sat in the chair and pulled a bar of sealing wax from a small box on his desk. He conjured a flame and melted the wax between his fingers, letting the liquid pool on the paper like so much red blood. He waited for it to cool slightly before stamping it with the seal of the Inquisition. 

She watched him silently, the crease between her brows only growing deeper. He rose and handed it to her. 

She took it numbly, blinking at him, and then set it back on the desk. “I still do not understand,” she said, shaking her head. “I thought you were against this.” 

He leaned back against the edge of the desk and curved an arm about her waist, pulling her close so that she stood between his knees. He brought his other hand to her cheek and grazed his thumb along her scar. She covered his hand with hers and held it there.

Then he launched himself from the cliff. 

“I want what you want,” he said, looking steadily into her hazel eyes. “Serving the Maker has been your life’s work. This chance, this opportunity, it’s more than either of us could have expected. The world is broken, and you could do so much good. If this is what you want, I will do everything in my power to make it so.”

“But what about…” She trailed off into silence, but he knew what she meant. 

“My heart is yours, Cassandra,” he declared, more sure of this than he had ever been about anything in his life. “More now than it ever was. I love you, and if you want me to do that from afar, I will.”

She blinked hard, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She curled her fingers against his bare chest and beat a fist lightly over his heart. He held her fast, pulling her closer to rest her head against his shoulder. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. He willed himself to be strong for her, to hold himself together while she fell apart. 

Finally, she raised her head, her eyes red but no longer crying. She fixed them on his. 

“Last night,” she said softly. “Did you mean it? When you asked me to stay?”

He raised his brows in surprise. Her question was the last thing he expected, and it disarmed him, utterly. This wasn’t part of the plan.

There was nothing to do but tell the truth. 

“With all my heart,” he admitted, nearly choking on the lump in his throat.

She held his gaze for another moment and then stepped back, deciding something. He knew that shift in her eyes. He let her go, feeling defeated, his arms hanging limp against his knees. He could think of nothing more to do or say. All the steely resolve that had carried him this far suddenly disappeared, evaporated into the air. 

He watched numbly as she pulled on her breeches and boots. Then she went into the stairwell to collect her things, returning with an armload of leather and steel. She stacked her armor on her chair by the fire. 

“May I leave this here?”

He nodded. 

Lastly, she took off his shirt and replaced it with her own worn tunic. She folded his garment carefully and laid it on the corner of the bed. It made him sad, and he couldn’t explain why. 

She came toward him and took the letter from the desk beside him. She touched his face and kissed him briefly. 

“I must speak with Leliana about this.”

He nodded again. “Yes, of course.”

He waited until the door closed behind her before falling to pieces. He pressed his fingertips to his eyelids and wiped away the tears that had gathered there. He took a few steps toward the balcony doors before backtracking to retrieve the bottle of whiskey from his desk. 

Outside, he drained what was left in his glass and poured himself another, trying in vain to gather his scattered thoughts. He tried to remind himself why this was for the best, that he was being a better man, that… _Fuck, what’s the point?_

So he gave up. Instead, he steeped himself in memory, filling his mind with images of Cassandra, his favorite moments from their time together. He leaned against the railing and wallowed in his misery, drinking and watching the sun rise in the sky. 

A flurry of ravens swooped down from the rookery and winged off toward the distant mountains. He wondered which of them carried the letter he had written, and with it all of his dead hopes and dreams. 

\--

Someone called his name, as if from a distance. 

He pried his eyes open, in defiance of the headache pounding in his temples. Turning his face from the pillow, he could see it was Cassandra. She sat beside him and touched a hand to his shoulder as he stretched face down in his bed. 

Eyes still bleary, he blinked dumbly at her. 

“Are you a desire demon?” he muttered thickly. “Come to tempt me?”

She shook her head and smiled at him. “No, Owain. I am your love, come to stay.”

“Wait.” His eyes went wide, and he wiped his face on the pillow before turning back to her. “What?”

“I spoke with Leliana,” she explained. “It is decided. I will refuse the summons, if it comes.”

He forced himself up, clearing the fog from his brain. 

“But, the letter,” he said, remembering the ravens silhouetted against the morning sky. 

She produced the fold of parchment, still sealed but slightly crumpled, and pressed it into his hand. 

“You should write another. For Leliana this time.”

He stared at the paper, still reeling with disbelief. He let himself drop onto his back and shifted to lean his head against the headboard. She moved closer, laying alongside him and resting her cheek against his chest. He made room for her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders almost automatically. 

“What about the Chantry? And serving the Maker?”

“Leliana and I have discussed it, and I am satisfied with her vision for the Chantry,” she replied. He recognized the decisiveness in her tone. “It is not what I would have done, but I believe she has Justinia’s wishes at heart, and I will support her in what she plans.” 

He listened, stroking his fingers absently up and down her arm.

“It is as you told me once-- there are other ways to serve the Maker. Leliana is devout, but she is also a bard. She is adept at The Game. She understands how to influence others, how to bend people to her cause. Her skills are better suited to the work of a Divine. I am a warrior. My place is with the Seekers. And with you.”

“You’re not _just_ a warrior, Cassandra.”

“No.”

His next breath was a strangled sob that echoed in the quiet room, and tears of a very different kind fell from his eyes.

He looked again at the letter in his hand and set it on fire, watching the flames lick across the parchment in his palm before shaking away the resulting ash. 

“It’s a shame,” he said, laughing shakily. “I worked hard on that.”

She smiled and took his hand, lacing her fingers with his. “It was a very good letter.”

He kissed the top of her head and sat with her in silence for a while, his mind whirring, rearranging the somber thoughts he had entertained only a few hours earlier. He still couldn’t believe this was real. 

But it was. 

He rolled on top of her and propped himself on his elbows, smiling down at her. He couldn’t stop smiling.

“I love you, Cassandra.”

“And I love you, Owain.”

He leaned down and kissed her, deep and slow, unrushed. Not the last time anymore. Not nearly. Suddenly, he felt she was wearing far too much clothing. 

“Ugh,” she groaned, wrinkling her nose at him as their lips separated. “Your breath is terrible.”

“Mm.” He ran his tongue across his teeth and tasted the sour remains of his whiskey as he sat back and tugged her breeches down her legs. “Too bad you already decided to stay.”

She chuckled, pulling her tunic over her head and wiggling to help him yank the clothing free of her feet. 

“I could still change my mind,” she said, her words belying the flush in her cheeks and the heat in her eyes as she lay naked beneath him. 

He smirked and flashed his grey eyes at her. 

“Then I guess I’ll just have to put my mouth elsewhere.”

She squealed with joyous laughter as he fell upon her. He had never heard her make that sound before, but he thought it was the most beautiful thing that ever reached his ears. He vowed he would hear it again. And again. To the end of his days. 

It was after dark when they finally left his quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bull was right, in a way. ;)
> 
> Also, I've been trying to get to this chapter for months. MONTHS. Thanks for reading! Appreciate the love, as always.


	24. Of Endings and Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle, and a victory lap.

It ended where it began. 

It would have been wiser to wait. To stall until their troops returned from the Arbor Wilds. If they rushed, if they sent the healthy forces on ahead and left the injured and the supplies and the equipment to follow later, they could be back at Skyhold within a week, Cullen said. 

But they didn’t have a week. 

Corypheus showed himself at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the Breach flashed a bright, livid green they could see all the way from Skyhold. Demons were pouring out of the Fade. 

They didn’t have a week. 

And Owain was tired. So tired. Of fighting. Of death. Of chasing that up-jumped Tevinter magister back and forth across the continent. No more. It needed to end. 

“That’s what he wants, Inquisitor!” Cullen protested, leaning his fists against the war table. “You are playing into his hand. Let us wait. Let us make a stand here! Skyhold is not Haven. It is defensible. It will hold.”

“The goal is not to hold, Commander,” Owain replied, having already decided. “The goal is to end.”

And so they rode out to meet the evil. Owain and his inner circle, a handful of volunteers from the garrison at Skyhold. Cutting their way through the demons, the Red Templars, the dregs of Corypheus’s army. 

It chilled his blood to be there again, among the jagged ruins that had forgotten what they were, the humming clusters of red lyrium that pushed up from the scorched earth. The passage of time and weather had washed away most of the ash and remains of the Conclave, but even now, almost a year later, there were still no plants or animals, no signs of life. But he was not there to admire the scenery. 

Counting the number of dragons he’d slain would require all of his fingers and a few of his toes. But the roar of Corypheus’s lyrium monstrosity was something else entirely. The sound penetrated his mind, scrambled his very thoughts. Cold fear rippled down his limbs and pinned him in place, even as the creature came diving out of the air. Coming for him. 

But then an answering screech and a green blur rushed from the edge of his vision and barrelled into the dragon, sending them both careening into the night sky. It was Morrigan, in dragon form. Owain blew out the breath he was holding. It was not for nothing that she drank from the Well. 

Cassandra called to him, and he shook the chill from his thoughts, wheeling to hurl a ball of flame at an incoming demon. He fade-stepped to her side and put his back to hers, swinging his staff at the rage demon bearing down on her flank. He pushed it back and threw his hand in the air, summoning an ice spell that locked it in place. As if on cue, the Seeker pulled her sword from the ashen remains of her last kill and turned to thrust it deep into the enemy’s frozen maw. It shattered almost instantly, falling to pieces around her blade. 

The scowl she always wore in battle softened minutely as she turned to him. She jerked her head toward the steps to the temple ruins, where Corypheus had fled. 

“These demons are endless,” she said. “We are wasting our time.”

Owain signaled to Cullen, who had just drawn his sword wearily from the armor of a fallen Red Templar. Althea stood behind him, sparking lightning in one hand, spectral blade in the other. 

“Cover us,” he ordered. 

Cullen dipped his head with understanding, his mouth a flat line. He rolled his shoulders and shifted the weapons in his grip, turning to shout directions to his men. Althea looked at Owain and held his gaze for a second longer. She gave him the faintest nod before turning to follow the commander. It made him want to smile. 

There was no more time to waste. Owain hurried up the stairs with Cassandra on his heels. A horde of demons made to follow, but Cullen and his men blocked the path. Sera and Varric covered their rear, pelting arrows into the crush of enemies. 

They reached the plateau of the temple and were greeted by Corypheus’s menacing laugh. The orb flashed in his hand, and the ground shifted beneath them. Owain fell to his knees as the stone tilted and swayed. The rush of air on his face and the pull of gravity in his gut told him they were moving upward, swiftly. High into the cold night air. 

A shrill scream rent his eardrums, and a dark figure plummeted to the ground. Morrigan, alive but badly hurt. Her body seized as she coughed, spitting blood. Owain waved to Dorian and left her in his care, his hands already working healing magic. 

His determination sharpened, Owain focused his mana and called forth a storm of flame. He directed it at Corypheus, but it never reached him. The dragon landed heavily instead, quaking their island of rock. Owain’s spell glanced off its scales, and it roared in wounded anger. 

_Shit. Shiiiiiit._

It screamed again, swinging its spiny neck in a wide arc and blowing a cloud of red poison. He stood rooted with indecision. Fear and despair clutched again at his heart. 

Thankfully, not everyone had the same problem. Behind him, he heard the clink of shattering glass. 

Something small and shiny flew overhead and exploded on the dragon’s snout. A great buzzing filled the air, and an undulating cloud of black particles swelled around the creature’s head, even as it snorted and stomped with irritation. 

Owain squinted. _Were those… bees?_

“EAT ARROWS, CORYPHY-SHIT!” 

And then the twang and snap of a bowstring and the rapid-fire _whoosh_ of flying missiles and unintelligible cursing. 

Sera’s fury roused something in the rest of them. The warriors rushed forward, blades flashing at the dragon’s legs, trying to bring it to its knees. The archers aimed for its wings and its face, tearing the thin membranes to keep it earthbound, piercing the fine scales around its eyes and nostrils. The dragon reared as the arrows found their marks, thrashing its head and churning the air with damaged wings, sending the warriors weaving between its stomping paws. 

Not forgetting their true enemy, the mages dueled Corypheus while keeping barriers up and spells timed to deflect his attempts to protect his pet. Owain supported the warriors where he could, dodging the lash of the dragon’s tail and the swipe of its claws, sending fire and ice and stone to control its position, to attack weak spots. 

It was Cassandra who actually killed the dragon, true to the Pentaghast name. They had brought it low at last. Its head hung near the ground on its outstretched neck. Seeing the opening, she ran forward, sword gripped in both hands, and with a great cry she plunged it into its throat, twisting the blade through its flesh. Red-black blood splattered as it stretched its neck one final time, wrenching the sword from her hands. It fell to the ground, heavy and dead. 

Corypheus bellowed and something seemed to go out of him with the loss of the dragon. Their spells were suddenly more effective, their arrows truer. 

They backed him to the edge of the floating rock, weakened and cornered. Owain reached forward with his left hand. It blazed with green light, and as if it had a mind of its own, Corypheus’s orb flew spinning out of his grasp. It leapt into Owain’s hand--the second time he’d held it. Pain lanced through his palm, so sharp it made him gasp, made his eyes water. The anchor flashed still brighter as he forced it up toward the sky, toward the Breach that had started it all. Power far beyond his own magic poured out of him into the heavens. 

And then suddenly it was over. A wave of energy pulsed through him, leaving strange quiet in its wake. The Breach was closed. The sky was whole. The orb slipped from his fingers, hemispheres falling to the ground. 

Owain advanced on Corypheus, who knelt defeated. _If you want into the Fade, I’ll send you._ He held his hand out again, opening a new tear in the Veil and feeling no regret at the mask of horror on the magister’s face. Corypheus disappeared in another dazzle of green light. The anchor went quiet, subsiding to a faint glow beneath his skin. 

It was almost too easy. Owain turned to his companions, who looked as stunned as he felt. But before they could register anything else, the rock shook beneath them, and they began to fall. 

The ruins crumbled, rubble falling, tumbling toward him. Cassandra shouted his name and pulled him roughly to the ground. Stones thumped against her shield, which she held over her shoulder, blessed shelter over their heads. He braced himself and set his teeth against the inevitable demands of gravity. He clung to her. Held her so tightly. 

They slammed to the earth, and the impact knocked the wind from his lungs. But the ground was solid beneath them. Cassandra released her held breath, and he could feel it sweep across his face. 

When nothing else threatened his life in the next half minute, he dared to rejoice. He smiled and squeezed his arms around Cassandra. He craned his neck up to claim a kiss. Her lips tasted like dust and blood and victory. It was over, and they were alive, and that was all he needed to know. 

\--

Josephine had outdone herself, in spite of the short notice. Owain would wager that even the Orlesian nobles who came to bask in the glow of the Inquisition’s triumph could find little to complain about. Skyhold’s great hall never looked so fine. The stone floors had been polished, the walls draped with tapestry. Candlelight shone off the stained glass windows, making them glitter like jewels. The long tables were covered with the kitchen’s best, while ale and wine flowed generously. A small band of musicians filled the air with spirited atmosphere. 

He stood at the back of the room and took in the scene, watching the soldiers, scouts, and workers of the Inquisition laugh, drink, and enjoy this hard-earned celebration. He reached up and tugged absently at the stiff collar of his formal coat. It was just like the one from Halamshiral, but newly made. They never could get the bloodstains out of the original. 

Leliana appeared beside him with a twinkle in her eyes. 

“A beautiful evening, isn’t it, Inquisitor?” she began, folding her hands behind her back and observing his gaze.

“Indeed,” he nodded. “You know, it feels strange to be celebrating. To think that our job is finally done. There was a time when I didn’t think this day would come.”

Leliana laughed. It was rich and musical, always unexpected from a spymaster whose currency was counted in secrets and death. “Your job is far from over, Inquisitor.”

He looked at her sharply and frowned. “But the Breach is closed. Corypheus is dead.”

“Yes, and a hundred more problems will take his place,” she pointed out. “Every noble in Southern Thedas is clamoring to meet with you. They will want your opinion on everything, whether you wish to give it or not.”

“Makes me wish for the days when I was just a filthy heretic mage,” he sighed. It felt like a lifetime ago, and in some ways, it was.

She smiled fondly at him. “The work can wait for one night.”

He snorted, as if that was a kindness. 

“Any word from the Grand Cathedral?” he asked. 

“I expect it will be public any day now.”

“Shall I start calling you ‘Most Holy?’” 

“Please!” she laughed again. “I will still be Leliana. And it will be some time before I officially take the Sunburst Throne. Enough to get our business in order and train my replacement.”

“Did you have someone in mind?” he asked.

“I was thinking of Charter,” she suggested. “You remember her? She has the Crestwood command.”

“Caer Bronach, yes,” he said. “If you think she’s up to the task, then I trust you.”

“I do,” she replied, nodding deeply. 

“There is one other thing, Inquisitor,” Leliana said after a beat. “I’ve had my scouts scouring the area for Solas. There have been no leads. The battle at the temple was the last anyone saw of him.”

Owain was quiet for a moment. He was not surprised. He had no doubt that if Solas did not want to be found, he was more than capable of keeping himself hidden. 

“We will keep searching,” she added when he didn’t respond. 

“Please do,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “Thank you, Leliana.” 

Suddenly he needed a drink. Badly. He smiled and turned to take his leave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I only have one night off, so I’m going to make it count.”

After a requisite amount of mingling, Owain settled at a table to put some food in his belly, the better to cushion the effects of what was now his third glass of wine. The bench creaked with added weight as someone sat beside him. 

“They’ll write songs about you, you know. Epic poetry. Heroic shit.” 

Owain turned toward Varric and twisted his mouth in a wry smile. 

“‘They?’ Or _you?_ ”

“Not me,” Varric snorted. “I prefer my humble prose, Ser Owain. I’ve got it all planned out. ‘This Shit is Weird, The Inquisitor Trevelyan Story.’” He waved his hand through the air, underlining his words with an imaginary quill. 

Owain paused with his cup halfway to his mouth and squinted at the dwarf. “Seriously?”

“It’s a working title,” Varric shrugged.

“Maker, I hope so,” he said, taking a long sip of wine. “I guess you’ll be heading back to Kirkwall?”

“Eventually,” Varric replied, staring into his mug. “It may be a shithole, but it’s my shithole.” He looked at Owain. “Don’t worry, I’ll stick around for a little while. Still need another game of Wicked Grace before I go. Let Curly win back his honor.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Owain chuckled, draining his cup and setting it back on the table. 

Feeling eyes on him, he looked up and caught Cassandra staring from the head of the room. What was most intoxicating--the drink, the warmth in her eyes when she refused to look away, or the relief of knowing that the world wasn’t ending anytime soon? Maybe all of the above. Whatever it was, it made him bold. He stood and straightened his coat. 

“Where are you going?” Varric asked. 

“Going to give you something to write about,” he threw over his shoulder. Varric snickered into his ale.

Owain locked his eyes on Cassandra’s as he strode purposefully across the hall, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him. She watched him approach with a curious look, brows furrowed and mouth curved with a question. She seemed to glow in her red formal coat, the color setting off her scrubbed olive skin and dark hair, the blue sash accentuating the curve of her waist. He quickly entertained and then banished the thought of what it would be like to remove it.

She had been listening to Josephine, who fell silent as Owain stopped in front of them. He nodded at Josie, who smiled in return, before bringing his attention to Cassandra. He dropped into a bow and offered his hand.

“May I have a dance, Lady Cassandra?”

Her eyes flickered over the scene, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he held his eyes steady on hers, and something changed within them. She put her hand in his and smiled slowly. 

“Of course, Owain.”

He grinned wide and pulled her close, relishing her quick breath as their bodies met. He put his hand at the small of her back, and she rested hers on his shoulder as he led her into the empty expanse of floor at the front of the hall. 

It was as if the whole room stopped to watch. The crowd cleared a space for them. The band swapped the piece they were playing for something soft and romantic. 

It barely registered with him. It was all peripheral, a blur at the edges as he put his focus on the woman in his arms. He knew he held her far too close. There was too much heat and too much possession in his gaze. But he didn’t care. Not when she blushed sweetly at him, her eyes full of the fierce, determined love that was the best thing in his life. Why would he ever want to hide it? She was his, completely, and he was hers in equal measure. Let the world know that. 

Their feet moved in concert without conscious thought. Every sway and turn and spin was perfectly matched, as natural as breathing. He knew her movements--the length of her step, the span of her reach--just so. He could feel them, could sense them, like they were his own. Except they _weren’t,_ and that seductive tension between the familiar and the unknown sparked a flame in his belly. A flame fueled by the firm/soft grip of her fingers, the idle circles her thumb rubbed into his shoulder, the mysterious glint in her hazel eyes. Maker, he felt like burning. 

The song ended, and they slowed to a stop. The crowd cheered. Owain noticed them abruptly, like waking from a dream. 

The musicians struck up another piece, something quicker, more lively. He shifted his hand on Cassandra’s back and quirked a brow at her, as if to say, “Another?” She smiled back and leaned closer, nuzzling her cheek to his. He took that as a yes. 

They weren’t alone this time. Some members of the Inquisition had joined them, along with a few of the nobles. He was pretty sure the loud, blond top gyrating at the edge of the room was Sera, dancing by herself. If that could be called dancing. Josephine sailed by in Blackwall’s arms, a spark in her eyes and charmed laughter on her lips. He was a surprisingly capable dancer, Blackwall. There were depths to Thom Rainier, Owain realized, that he had barely come to know. 

“Why are you smiling?” Cassandra asked, noting the faraway look in his eyes. 

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh, besides the obvious? I was just thinking how lucky I am, to have met all these people. To have met you. But after tonight, everything changes. Everyone will go their separate ways, go back to their lives and their homes.”

Her eyes searched his face for a moment. “Everything is always changing, my love,” she said quietly. “Better in victory than defeat.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “I’m not sorry we won.”

“We fought together,” she went on, her voice certain and strong. “We survived together. Some ties are stronger than time and distance. And you will always have me.”

“Yes,” he said, pausing their dance to look at her fully, “and that will always make me smile.” He made good on his word and kissed her. He almost forgot where he was, for the second time that evening. 

The music changed again, and he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“Mind if I cut in?” rumbled the Iron Bull. “I might not get another chance with the Lady Seeker. Gotta make sure you know what you’re missing out on, Cass.”

Owain laughed as Cassandra rolled her eyes. “If the lady doesn’t object,” he replied. 

Cassandra huffed but took Bull’s offered hand. He swept her away with what might have been a wink at Owain. Was it still a wink if you only had one eye?

He shook his head and made his way to the perimeter, where he found Cullen standing stiffly in his dress uniform. Althea frowned silently beside him, her arms folded over her chest. 

Owain arched a brow at her. “You two look miserable. Not dancing?”

“I-- ah. I don’t dance, Inquisitor.” Cullen rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “Never had much reason to, in the Order.”

“And I don’t know how,” said Althea, looking a bit embarrassed. 

“Don’t know how?” Owain repeated. It was the wrong thing to say. 

“No,” she ground out, shifting her hands to her hips. “When would I have learned? All those dance lessons at the Circle? We didn’t all grow up in fine noble houses, _Trevelyan_.”

He opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it. She was right, of course, and he’d been thoughtless with his assumptions. To make amends, he bowed and held out his hand. 

She narrowed her eyes at him and glanced quickly at Cullen, who simply shrugged, before tentatively accepting. Owain smirked and closed his fingers around hers, leading her to the edge of the dance floor. 

He set her hand on his shoulder and pressed his firmly to her waist. “Your part is easy,” he said. “All you have to do is follow.”

Althea snorted. “And when has that been easy for me?”

“You might be better at it than you think,” he encouraged. “Just move with the music.” And then he led her in a simple waltz.

They didn’t speak for a moment as she tried to pick up the steps. It wasn’t so bad for a first attempt. 

“Don’t look at your feet,” he said, pressing her closer when he caught her looking down. “That only makes it worse.”

She made a frustrated sound and forced her eyes up, wandering the room before landing back on him. Her bright blue eyes scanned his face, and she smirked. 

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. 

“I can’t believe you did this,” she said, shaking her head. “Saved the fucking world.”

“It was a group effort.”

Her smile softened, which for Althea always presaged a bit of sincerity. “Do you remember when we were kids back in the tower, dreaming about what we’d do with our lives?”

“I remember.” And he did. Childhood dreams of knighthood, chivalry, and ideals, shredded to line the walls of his Circle cage. A shot of bitterness clouded his mood. 

“Did you ever imagine it’d be like this? That you’d lead an army? Be a hero?”

He shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t even think I’d leave the Circle, Thea. Never been that creative.” He reflected her question back. “What about you? Did you ever think you’d rebel? That you’d fall in love with a Templar?”

“Maker,” she grumbled. “He’s _such_ a Templar sometimes…”

Owain smirked and tilted his head. “Isn’t that why you like him?”

She huffed again and looked away. “So Cass decided to stay?”

He gave a single nod. “She decided to stay. It’ll be odd to have a spymaster as the Divine.”

“We’ll get used to it, I’m sure,” she scoffed. The concerns of the Chantry would never be among her priorities. “Fiona is serious about the College. Once the arrangements are in order, they’ll set up in Val Royeaux.”

“You’ll go with them?” He furrowed his brow. Everyone was leaving him. 

She nodded. “But I’ll be back,” she assured him. “I’ve got reasons to come back.”

“Reasons, or _reason?_ ”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Seriously. You know there would be a place for you there, if you wanted it? You’re still one of us, Owain, even if you are the Inquisitor.”

There was a time when he would have jumped at her offer, when he considered himself a mage first and Inquisitor second. He startled himself by realizing that that was no longer true. 

“Thanks,” he said anyway. “I’ll think about it.”

The song wound to a close, and they stopped. “See?” he teased. “That wasn’t so bad.” 

“Easy for you to say,” she shot back. 

A flourish of brilliant white and scarlet silk appeared beside them and cleared its throat. “A dance, my lady?” 

Althea threw back her head and stretched out her hand in her best impression of an Orlesian dowager. “But of course, Lord Pavus.”

Dorian gathered her in his arms and dismissed Owain with a word. “You’re good, Trevelyan, but you’re not that good.”

Abandoned again, Owain complained to no one and walked off in search of another glass of wine. That quest accomplished, he returned to the edge of the room where Cullen stood alone, attempting to blend into one of the long velvet curtains that spanned the height of the room. Owain looked out and caught a glimpse of Dorian sweeping by with Althea. Cassandra was dancing with Blackwall. 

“Are you… hiding?” he ventured to the Commander of the Inquisition. 

“Are they still there?” Cullen peered around the drapery at a gaggle of Orlesians. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered.

“Admirers?”

“Vultures, more like.”

“You do know what would solve this?” Owain smirked before sipping at his wine. “More alcohol. Or dancing.”

Cullen exhaled a nervous laugh. “Someone needs to stay sober, Inquisitor. I’ve assigned the regular watches tonight, but I… suspect they won’t be carried out to our usual standards. And tomorrow, there’s the inventory from the Wilds to finish. Not to mention anything else that may come up. Corypheus may be dead, but our work is far from over.”

“So I’ve heard, Cullen,” Owain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know, there will always be plenty of work to do? You are allowed leave it for one night.”

“I— you’re right,” Cullen conceded after a pause, rubbing his neck again. “Of course you are. Part of me still can’t believe it’s over. The Breach. The demons. The dragon. It was well done, Trevelyan.”

Owain smiled. “We mages are alright after all, hmn?”

“Hah… Yes…” Cullen trailed off, his eyes going distant. Perhaps he was thinking about _his_ mage. Then he turned back to Owain like he’d made up his mind about something. 

“Excuse me, Trevelyan. I think I just might… after all…” Owain lost the rest as Cullen marched into the crowd on the dance floor, looking a bit like a man going to the gallows. 

Dorian appeared at his side a minute later, balancing a goblet of wine in his fingers. “I’ve been replaced,” he said.

“Now you know how I feel,” Owain quipped over the rim of his cup. 

“Can’t blame her, really,” Dorian added, watching the passing couples with a slight wrinkle in his nose. “Though he is a truly awful dancer.”

“Blind leading the blind,” Owain agreed. “But at least they’re having fun.”

Dorian made a noncommittal sound before turning to Owain. “Did you know, I was crossing the great hall this morning, and a servant girl saw me and squealed? She dropped a whole basket of laundry. Such a mess. ‘You were at the battle of the breach with the Inquisitor!’ she said. And then she hugged me. Hugged me! This is your doing.”

“You’re a hero now, Dorian. Get used to it.”

“Is that what this is?” Dorian mused. “Hah! Well, I can’t say I hate the idea of being ‘the good Tevinter.’ The blacksmith nodded to me yesterday when I went to pick up some armor. And he spat when we first met! I hope my father hears of this. He would shit himself.”

Owain arched a brow at him. “Does that mean you’re going home, too?”

“Oh, not for a while yet,” Dorian waved. “I’ve decided to stay with the Inquisition for the time being. Tevinter lacks my few and only friends. It will keep.”

Owain smiled at that news and raised his wine in salute. “I’ll drink to that.”

“That’s not saying much, for you,” Dorian needled as he tapped his cup to Owain’s and took a healthy sip. “But anyway, you need someone to keep you from getting yourself killed, yes? Now that that hobo apostate is gone.”

Owain tugged at his collar again. “I was hoping to have a break from life-threatening injuries. For a time.”

“True,” Dorian acknowledged. “We’ve all earned a bit of pleasure, I think.”

The Iron Bull was hard to miss as he parted the crowd, horns rising a head above all others. Owain watched his approach and smirked. “Speaking of?”

Bull paused in front of them and bowed, a surprisingly delicate move for such a large man. He grinned and extended his hand. “Dorian! Let’s dance!”

Dorian was speechless for a moment. A rare thing. 

“You and I?” he spluttered. “Here?”

Bull nodded and stretched his smile wider. 

“But—“ He turned and threw a glance at Owain, who leaned over and took the goblet from his hand. 

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “People have been leaving me all night.”

Dorian placed a cautious hand in Bull’s. “Alright then,” he said softly, just above a whisper. 

Owain watched as they glided away in a whirl of silk and horns. And then he left to find Cassandra, because with all this romance in the air, he already missed having her in his arms. 

\--

They found themselves back in his quarters some hours later. Exactly how many, he had no idea. It was dark up here. The embers in the fireplace gave off a dim glow barely enough to see by. He bent to add a fresh log and waved a hand to help it along. It caught in a blaze of light and heat. As he straightened, the room seemed to revolve slowly around him. 

His fingers felt thick and clumsy as he fumbled with the buttons of his coat. Seeing him struggling, Cassandra came to help. She was so much better at it that he gave up, dropping his hands at his sides to watch her. 

He tossed the coat over the back of a chair and seized her by the waist, pulling her tight for a slow, dizzying kiss. Then he grinned and tugged at the knot securing the sash around her jacket. 

“Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about getting you out of this uniform?” he murmured. 

She laughed and spun in place to unwind the length of silk. Free of that, she went to work on the buttons of her own coat. Owain leaned close to help her, his fingers suddenly nimble. 

“Oh, so you can undo my buttons but not your own.”

He wrinkled his eyes at her. “I just need to be properly motivated. I’m a very goal-oriented man, Cassandra.”

The jacket finally open, he pushed his hands under it and hummed with satisfaction. She gasped with pleasure as he drifted his mouth down her throat, filling his lungs with her sweet scent, nipping at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. 

He walked her back to the edge of the bed and tipped them onto it. She smiled up at him and hooked a leg around one of his, hands reaching for the laces of his breeches. 

_Not yet._ He clicked his tongue in reproof and swatted her hands away, catching her wrists to pin them above her head. Her eyes were full of fire for him, and she squirmed in his grip, biting down on her lower lip. 

“So impatient, my love,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over that lip before flicking his tongue across it. The noise she made beneath him was both helpless and greedy, and it went straight to his cock.

Shifting his weight to an elbow, he ran an appreciative hand up her body, lingering over her thighs and her hips, snaking up under her shirt to worship her warm skin and soft curves. He palmed her breasts and grazed his thumb—just right—over their pebbled tips, smiling at every sound that fell from her lips. 

The wait was too much for her. Without warning, she slipped her hands from his hold and wrapped her legs around his hips, flipping him onto his back. He landed with a grunt and pressed his hands to her ass, beaming. He didn’t mind being bested, by her. 

“You’re delightful, did you know that?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “You’ve mentioned it.” He stretched his neck up for a kiss, but she leaned her hands on his chest to keep him down. “And you are drunk.”

“Am I?” He arched a skeptical brow, dropping his head to the mattress. He was still smiling. Maker, he couldn’t stop. 

“Yes,” she reiterated, widening her eyes at him. Then she shivered and looked toward the windows. “And you left the door open again. It is freezing in here.”

She rose from the bed and went to the door, pausing to look out at the night sky. 

“I could warm you up,” he called after her. 

She glanced back at him and shook her head. Then she walked out onto the balcony. 

Owain sighed and scratched his fingers through his hair. He got up reluctantly and followed her, doing his best to ignore the mild see-sawing of the floor as he crossed it. 

She was standing at the stone railing, looking out at the sky. And what a magnificent sky. The moons had set, leaving the stars bright. Where the breach once hung, an aurora shimmered like an iridescent ribbon, purple, pink, and green set against the blue-black heavens. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said. 

“Mm,” he agreed, moving to stand behind her. He pressed his chest to her back and folded her in his arms, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Do you remember the last time we celebrated closing the breach? We sat on that dock back in Haven?”

“That feels like a very long time ago.”

“Yes.” He remembered how he felt for her, what he had wanted, even then. “Tell me. What would you have done if I had kissed you that night?”

She was silent for a moment, thinking. And then she answered. “I would have throttled you,” she said. 

He wasn’t expecting that. It caught him by surprise, and he laughed. Laughed so hard that his stomach hurt and tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. 

She turned her head and looked at him like he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had. When he caught his breath, he brushed her hair back from her forehead and planted a kiss there. 

“Well, it’s a good thing I waited,” he smirked. “Did you know there are people who don’t think you’re funny?”

“I was not trying to be humorous,” she frowned. 

“I know,” he said, on the verge of laughter again. “That’s part of it.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes and settled back in his embrace. 

Feeling the chill in the air, he leaned forward against the balustrade and warmed them both with his magic. She covered his hands with hers and turned them palm-side up. 

The anchor gleamed in his left, unchanged by the closing of the breach. She traced a finger across the light. 

“It’s still here,” she said softly. 

There were no words to his reply, just a yellow flame that flickered in his other hand. He couldn’t see her smile at that, but he sensed it anyway. He let it burn for a few seconds before closing his fingers over it. 

Reverently, and with infinite gentleness, she took that hand in both of hers and opened it flat. She brought it up and blessed his palm with a kiss. 

It meant the world to him, that gesture. Overwhelmed, he pulled her snug, curling his left arm around her waist. His right hand he slipped down her neck, past her collar and into her shirt, resting it over her heart, his skin to hers. What beat there was a rhythm precious, the cadence of his love, his life, his everything. 

He pressed his lips to her neck and whispered into her ear those three words that formed a truth he would never tire of telling her. She didn’t even need to say it back, but she did. 

“Shall we go inside?” she added. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied. 

He fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been writing this for… *squints at the date* ...a year now? Apparently? Which is crazy for something I started on a whim. Thanks for joining me on this ride, especially if you’ve been here a while. I see you! <3
> 
> AND we’re not even done yet. Join us next time as Owain lives that post-canon life. Fluffy with a chance of angst. ;)


	25. Birthright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor forces Owain to face some complicated truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Besides your father, he's practically the only family you have left, and you're just going to throw that away?”_
> 
> _“You forget,” Owain wheeled on her, his voice full of venom. “They threw me away first. A long time ago.”_
> 
> _\--Clean Burn Ch. 9, Scar Tissue_

“Bann Merric Trevelyan of Ostwick to see you, Inquisitor.”

Owain looked up from the half-written report on his desk and blinked mutely at the messenger. Idelle was her name, a wisp of an elven woman, one of Josephine’s runners. Cassandra had looked up from her chair by the fire. He glanced briefly at her before turning his eyes back to the elf. 

Had he heard correctly?

“Who, did you say?”

She repeated herself. He had. Heard correctly. 

_Merric._

Owain heaved a sigh and dropped his quill back in its well, lest it drip still more ink across his already blotted desktop. “He’s here? Downstairs?”

“Yes, Your Worship. In Lady Montilyet’s office.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Idelle. Tell them I’ll be down in a moment.”

She bowed and took her leave. When he heard the door shut behind her, he shoved his chair back with a juddering scrape and rose to his feet. He turned and dragged a hand down his face, staring out, unseeing, at the morning sun that streamed through the tinted glass. 

It was like diving headfirst into memory. One moment, dry ground. The next, in over his head. It had been sunny that day, too. He remembered the awkward weight of the ill-fitting armor, still too big for his growing frame, the heavy leather grip of the sword in his hand. His father’s withering disapproval. Fear, humiliation. The pounding of hooves beneath him. Adrenaline and rage within. Magic that could not be contained. Flames. And a terrible, terrible smell...

Cassandra’s boots scuffed the stone floor. Her hand was a light touch on his arm that pulled him back to earth. 

“Are you alright, my love?”

He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, blowing it out between his lips. He could feel his pulse thundering in his veins. Then he blinked open to meet the concern on her face. 

His words came out in fits and starts. “I didn’t— I never—“ He sighed again. 

The line between her brows lengthened. She pulled his body square to hers and touched his face with her cool fingers. He wrapped his hand tightly around hers and drew on her steady strength. 

He smiled darkly and found his voice at last. “I had twenty years to think about this moment, and I’m still not ready for it.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why he is here?”

Owain shook his head. 

“Have you any reason to believe he wishes you ill?”

He wrinkled his nose and cast his eyes at the floor. “Not particularly, no,” he admitted. “We were close as children, before my father drove us apart. But I haven’t seen or heard from him since I left home.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” she said, pressing her fingers to his chin and forcing him to meet her eyes. He looked at her, unable to hide the misery and uncertainty in his heart. She always managed to see the truth, no matter how deep he tried to bury it. “Owain, you are the Inquisitor. A battlemage, a warrior. You defeated Corypheus and saved all of Thedas. You have nothing to fear.”

He sighed again. The rational part of his brain knew she was right, yet the prospect of this meeting made him feel less like the man he was and more like the callow boy he had been all those years ago. When it came to his family, it was as if no time had passed. 

Seeing him still unsure, Cassandra rocked forward on her toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was a small thing, but it made him believe her words, just a little. 

“Come with me?” he asked, searching her eyes and brushing back the wayward hair at her temples. 

“Are you sure?”

“If he’s not here for ill, as you say, then he should meet you,” he said, a slow grin spreading on his face. “And if he is… Well. He should still meet you.”

She snorted but followed anyway as he straightened his shoulders and moved toward the door. 

Halfway down the stairs, he paused, his heart racing again. 

Idelle had called him _Bann._ Only then did Owain realize what that meant. 

\---

When Owain pushed open the door to Josephine’s parlor, Merric was standing by the fire, one hand on the mantle, the other leaning heavily on a polished walking stick. He stared silently at Owain, just as Owain stared silently at him. Owain was vaguely aware of his legs carrying him halfway across the room before slowing to an unconscious stop. He realized he didn’t know how to begin. What should he say? How did one greet a brother after so many years apart? He knew no protocol for this.

He had, at times, wondered how it would be to meet Merric again. What would they be like as grown men? In his mind’s eye, his brother was forever the gangly sixteen-year-old he had been on his birthday, and he a still-round-faced boy of thirteen, behind in height and reach but already an equal in skill. 

It was, he discovered, a bit like looking in a smoked mirror, or at his own reflection in a shifting pool. Impossible to deny they were kin when they stood side-by-side. Merric was a bit taller still, but slimmer, which would be more evident if he was able to stand straight. As it was, with his crooked legs and reliance on a cane, they saw just about eye-to-eye. This, like the scars Owain wore on his face and body, was the legacy of that day. They had both come away marked for life. 

Merric had inherited more of their mother’s beauty, Owain their father’s harsh angles. Merric’s brown-black hair was sprinkled with salt and long enough to tie back from his face. But their eyes were the same, differing only in the number of lines that surrounded them on their faces and the various moods that passed behind them. The same elusive shade of grey--their mother’s--the same cool capacity for anger, from their father. 

Josephine broke the silence, and he could have kissed her for it. 

“Ah, Inquisitor!” she said brightly, skirting the tension that had wrapped him in a paralyzing embrace. “Bann Trevelyan is here to see you.”

Owain nodded deeply. “Merric,” he said. 

“Your Worship,” his brother replied with a shade of amusement in his tone. 

Merric’s eyes drifted to Cassandra, who had walked in after Owain. 

He supposed he should introduce her. “This is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, my--er…” He paused, and it occurred to him that he didn’t know how to formally address their relationship. He had never really had to; everyone in the Inquisition knew they were together. She was his _what,_ exactly? “Well, this is Cassandra,” he finished lamely. Should have let Josie handle that. 

Merric bent at the waist and bowed. “Lady Pentaghast.”

Cassandra greeted him in turn, dipping into an elegant curtsy, not a move she often employed. Owain bit back the sly grin tugging at his lips.

Merric looked between them, his calculating gaze deducing the meaning Owain’s words had failed to convey. “So the rumors are true then? The Inquisitor’s consort is none other than the Right Hand of the Divine?” 

Owain’s face fell. _Consort?_ Not the word he would have chosen. He narrowed his eyes and deflected. “Rumors?” 

Merric exhaled through his nose. “You think people don’t talk about you? If you thought the marriage game was a nuisance as a Trevelyan, that’s nothing compared to when you’re the almighty Inquisitor.”

Owain frowned and glanced at Josie, who shrugged and smiled at him, unruffled. He flexed his hands at his sides, unsure what to say to that. 

Merric shook his head and sighed, pinching the inner corners of his eyes. “Sorry. I did not intend for us to begin like that.” He circled the armchair by the fire and sat heavily, his grunt belying the effort it must have cost to greet Owain on his feet. “How have you been? It’s been so long.”

Owain stayed where he was. “Well enough, I suppose. Considering.” He took a deep breath before asking the question that had been burning in his mind for the past ten minutes. “So it’s Bann now, is it?”

“I could say the same to you, Lord Inquisitor.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment before Merric broke away. “End of last year,” he said quietly. “Just after we heard you were named Inquisitor. I did try to write.”

Owain remembered the unread letter somewhere in his desk upstairs, and the air seemed to collapse in his lungs. There was a tightness in his chest, but what emotions were at the root of it, he couldn’t begin to pin down. He looked at his feet, and then up at Josie. 

He cleared his throat. “May we have the room?” he rasped. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all, Inquisitor.” She was already sweeping toward the door. “Take all the time you need.”

Cassandra started to follow, but Owain touched a hand to her elbow. “Not you,” he said softly. “Stay. Please.” _I need you,_ were the words unvoiced, begged with his eyes instead. 

Her expression flickered with understanding, mouth twitching with the faintest smile of reassurance. She turned and lowered herself onto the loveseat before the fire. 

Owain moved to Josie’s desk as the door closed behind her and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter. He raised his brow with an offer to the others, but Merric merely pointed at the full glass already perched on the table beside him, and Cassandra just shook her head. Owain drained his first cup and poured himself another, carrying it with him to the last empty chair in the sitting area. 

“I always thought I’d be happy to hear he was dead,” he mused, looking down at the liquid in his hand. _But was he?_ He wasn’t sure. 

“Believe me, I know.”

“How?”

“It was nothing dramatic. Age, or perhaps all that bitterness getting to him in the end. He hadn’t been well the past year or so.” Merric reached into his coat and extracted a small bundle of parchment. “I’ve been going through his papers.” He held out the parcel, and Owain leaned forward to take it, his brows knit with a mix of curiosity and dread. 

He set his drink aside and tugged at the knot of twine holding the packet together, letting the length of it slither into his lap. The papers were old, wrinkled and yellow at the edges. He separated the top one from the stack and pulled it carefully open. 

_Young Trevelyan makes steady progress in his studies. His prior education does him credit. The burns have healed well and cause no observable impairment in his range of movement. There was a minor incident some weeks ago involving another apprentice in his dormitory, which required Templar intervention, but it was resolved with no permanent effects…_

Owain’s heart hammered in his chest. He skimmed the rest, to prove it was real, before darting his eyes to the bottom of the page. It was signed by First Enchanter Albright. His mouth fell open, and he shuffled quickly through the rest of the bundle. 

“This--” he sputtered. “How did--”

“They’re all like that.” Merric reached for his wine and nodded at the pile in Owain’s hands. “They go on for years. Drop off at some point--perhaps the bribes ran dry. But he kept them after all this time. I found them among his things.”

Owain realized his mouth was still open and snapped it shut with a clack of his teeth. “I don’t understand. Why was he spying on me? Why would he go to so much trouble?”

Merric put his glass down and squinted at him like the answer was obvious. “You were always his favorite. You do know that, right?”

_Impossible._ Owain shook his head. “That’s… But you were his heir. His firstborn.”

“And you think he loved me for that?” Merric scoffed. “I’m fairly certain I was a disappointment from the moment I chose books over swords.” He laughed darkly. “You know, when we sparred, I used to think he wished it was real, that I’d die and you would inherit. I’m still not sure that isn’t what he wanted. No doubt he would have been happier if I had turned out to be the mage.”

“Everything he used to say… I thought he hated me.” Owain’s head spun as he reconsidered the facts of his past. Yet there were so many missing pieces. “Why not just talk to me instead? Why not visit? Or write? It would have been allowed. I heard nothing from him in twenty years. Not a word since he sent me away.”

It was Merric’s turn to shake his head and sigh. “I’m the last person to make excuses for him. He said and did terrible things, and this doesn’t change that. I just thought you should know.”

Owain was silent for a moment, running his fingers over the aged parchment. Then he frowned. “What about you? Why didn’t I hear from you all those years? Or Mother?”

Merric screwed up his face. “Would you believe we thought you were dead? It’s what he told us. I was in and out of consciousness for days after the accident. When the fever broke, you were long gone. They had taken you to the Circle, and Father said you died of your injuries there. Even sent back a box of ashes for us to mourn and bury in the family plot.”

“Shit,” Owain breathed.

“That’s not even the worst of it. He let Mother die thinking her son was dead.”

Owain had no words for that. He had lived his life with the belief that his family had thrown him away, that they had turned their backs on him. It was part of him, had defined him, made him who he was. But what if it wasn’t true? Or not entirely so? And yet, one point was clear: his father had not wanted him to be part of their lives, and he had made that decision for all of them, had deprived him of the connections he had been born to, had knowingly and purposefully left him utterly alone. And that, he decided, was unforgivable. No secret letters would change that. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there stewing in a swirl of hate, a smoldering pit of bitterness and resentment. He looked up at last to see Cassandra’s worried eyes on him, and it was like a lifeline. He clung to it tight, letting her pull him toward safety and shore. 

Merric had been content to sip his wine and stare into the fire, lost in his own thoughts. He startled when Owain interrupted the silence with a question. 

“And you?” he asked. “What have you been doing all this time?”

Merric turned and fingered the silver knob at the tip of his cane. “I left home not long after you did,” he explained. “It took some time to recover. I had to learn how to walk again. But I couldn’t get away fast enough. Father had this way of looking at me that I couldn’t stand. Like I disgusted him.”

Owain pressed his lips together with sympathy. His brother’s life had not been easy, either, and for that, he felt more than a little responsible. “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing the words weren’t enough. “Truly. About the accident. My magic... everything.”

Merric waved it off. “One of our old tutors had a connection at the university in Val Royeaux. They offered me a place there, so I took it. I didn’t go home for years. Not until Mother took ill. I went back after she died and took Celia with me. We eloped.” 

Celia Stanwick, Merric’s betrothed, was the daughter of one of Ostwick’s wealthy merchant families. Owain recalled a clever, pretty girl with a sharp tongue and a spark in her dark brown eyes. She used to laugh at him. 

“Didn’t Father approve of the match? I thought that was settled ages ago.”

“Funny how people change their minds when you can no longer walk properly,” Merric snarked. “She didn’t care, of course. But her parents weren’t eager to have a cripple for a son-in-law, even the heir to the what—seventh or eighth—most illustrious family in Ostwick? It didn’t help to know there was magic in our blood. Father broke it off at the first sign of hesitation. His pride couldn’t handle the insult. So we were a love match after all.”

Owain chuckled. At least there was happiness in that. “Any children?”

Merric shook his head and smiled wistfully. “Yet another way I failed.”

“I’m sorry.” He was saying that a lot. 

“Don’t be,” Merric sighed. “It’s not anything we can control. But it reminds me. You should know that I’ve had you restored in the line of succession. If I die childless, the estate and title will come to you.” He paused, glancing at Cassandra. “And any issue.”

Cassandra was studying the rug, her mouth drawn in a tight line. Owain frowned. “But, mages…”

“They say our new Divine intends to change all that,” Merric interjected, “or is the gossip wrong for once? She still works for you, does she not? In any case, I’m sure exceptions would be made for the Inquisitor.”

He guessed that was probably true. “I-- Thank you, Merric. You didn’t need to do that.”

“I’d rather see you have something to show for all this than give it to one of our grasping cousins. Besides, can you imagine how furious Father would be to see his legacy fall to a mage?”

Owain snorted, and Merric grinned, his face softening with the expression. Owain could almost recognize the brother he had loved. Then Merric reached for his cane and hauled himself to his feet. 

“Let’s go outside. I didn’t come all this way just to talk.”

\---

“I’ve only been back in Ostwick for the last four or five years,” said Merric as they passed through the Great Hall. “Father’s memory had been declining. I thought it best to come home and learn how to handle the estate. And Orlais wears on you, after a time.”

“Enough to put up with Father?” Owain quipped as he waited for his brother to catch up. Cassandra had gone on ahead, so it was just the two of them now. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Merric continued. “The old man was miserable. And we had our arguments. But we reached an equilibrium of sorts, eventually. It was probably hardest on Cee, to be honest.” He stopped for a short rest when they reached the outer doors, his breathing labored now. “I’ve been thinking a lot, you know, about family, since he died. About what it means. ‘Blood is thicker than water.’ Isn’t that what they say?” 

“Except when there’s magic in that blood, apparently.” 

Merric turned and looked at Owain as they stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the yard. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then tried again. 

“What I said in there, that wasn’t the whole truth,” he said, raising a hand to stave off Owain’s reflexive questions. “It’s true, I did think you were dead, for a long time. Mother thought so, certainly. But when I came back that first time, I heard you were alive. Just rumors at first, tradesmen that did business with the Circle. But I looked into it after I got back to Orlais, and I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe we had left you like that. 

“I meant to do something about it, I really did. But I was ashamed. Ashamed that I had believed the lies. What you must have thought of us! So I told myself it could wait. We weren’t children anymore, what use could you have for us now? And then years passed. And you became Inquisitor, and it was impossible to ignore any longer. But I’m sorry. I am. And if you hate me for that, I don’t blame you.”

Speechless, Owain could feel his heart grow cold as a chill ran down his spine. Merric had known. He had _known._ For _years._ For so long, in the depths of his loneliness, Owain had tried to convince himself that his family didn’t matter, that he didn’t need them, and after all those years, it had very nearly worked. But how would his life have been different if he had known he was part of something bigger? That he mattered to someone beyond the walls of that Circle Tower? 

And suddenly, even after everything else he had learned that afternoon, _this_ was too much for him. It broke something inside him, and years’ worth of stored-up pain flowed from the floodgates of his heart. 

“Is that what this is, then?” he spat, feeling his face harden into a scowl. “Renewing brotherly ties with the Inquisitor? At what point were you going to ask for a favor?”

Merric’s mouth hung open, and for the first time, he looked truly unsettled. “Never,” he insisted. “I swear it. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head and tapped his cane on the flagstones. “We come from the same poisoned roots, Owain. Now that I’m head of this house, I want to change that. I want to change our legacy. I don’t want to repeat the past.”

Owain sneered and turned to go back into the keep, now wanting to be anywhere but here. Merric reached a hand out to stop him, grasping at the back of his coat. 

Without warning, Owain wheeled at this contact, his eyes flashing with rage. The anchor on his hand sparked, and the torches on either side of the door flared with his mana. Merric’s eyes went wide with real fear. He faltered, losing his hold and stumbling backward. 

But as quickly as Merric’s confession had stoked his anger, seeing that fear in his brother’s eyes touched something else deep within him. Perhaps it was guilt, or regret, or some remnant of love he had taught himself to forget, but it brought him back to that fateful day and quenched the fire in his heart. He returned to himself and let instinct take over, reaching out to grab the front of Merric’s shirt, pulling him back to solid footing. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, their faces reflected in mirrored grey eyes, searching for forgiveness and understanding that seemed almost within reach. 

Owain unfurled his fingers, and the torches returned to their normal level. Merric adjusted his grip on his cane and closed his eyes, breaths still coming in rapid order. 

“You’re right,” Owain muttered, turning to go down the stairs. “Let’s not repeat the past.” 

A handsome carriage stood in the Skyhold courtyard with the Trevelyan arms painted neatly on its doors. _Modest in temper, bold in deed._ Owain stood there as his attitude cooled and wondered how closely he’d hewn to those words after all. 

Behind the carriage stood a handful of horses, tall and proud like the ones they raised on the estate. Dennet was supervising a group of stablehands and assistants as they tended to the beasts. 

“I didn’t come empty-handed,” said Merric, joining him at the foot of the steps. He hobbled forward, stopping in front of a stoic black mare. She was beautiful, all black except for the white at her feet and the tip of her nose, like charcoal ashed over. She stared at Owain through black eyes and flicked her ears in greeting. 

“This one’s for you,” Merric said, curving his mouth like a proud father. “One of the fastest we’ve ever had. Do you remember Midnight? That mean beast? She’s from his line.”

“I remember,” Owain replied, taking her bridle and patting her nose. “Maker, he was terrifying.”

“Well, she’s got his speed, but not his temper.” 

Owain smiled in spite of himself and turned to see Cassandra standing a few paces back with a slight frown and arms crossed over her chest. He quirked a brow at her and stepped back, inviting her to join him. She shook her head.

“Not fond of horses, Lady Pentaghast?” asked Merric.

“They are dung monsters with hooves and tails,” she sniffed. 

Merric smirked and turned to Owain, pitching his voice confidentially. “Are you certain about her?”

Owain laughed and twinkled his eyes at the Seeker. “She has other redeeming qualities.”

She rolled her eyes and made a disgusted sound. 

Merric turned the horse over to Dennet and waved toward a dark, sullen-looking boy, aged 11 or 12, who was standing by the carriage’s back wheels. His face turned serious as the boy approached.

“I know I said I wasn’t here to ask for favors, but I do have something to ask of you. Just not for my sake.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Do you remember Master Upton, father’s steward when we were young? This is his grandson, Will. His father runs the stables for us, and I promised him I would get the boy here in one piece.”

Will bowed. Owain nodded and then frowned at his brother. 

“What are you getting at, Merric? The Inquisition is no place for a young lad.”

“Will started showing signs of magic four months ago,” he explained. “Almost burned down the stables twice. It’s not safe for him back home. He needs an education, to be with other mages, but we have no other options. There is no more Circle in Ostwick, and the Templars are in disarray. Bringing him here was the only solution I could think of.”

Owain propped a hand on his hip and rubbed at his temples. It was true that the disbanding of the Circles and the mage rebellion in general had broken the traditional structures for handling those with nascent magical ability. Surely Fiona and the College of Enchanters would build new, better systems for educating young mages and teaching them to control their powers. But had he ever considered what they were supposed to do in the meantime? 

The boy looked up at him, his wary eyes burning with a blend of defiance and fear. Owain couldn’t help but see himself in that look. 

“Very well,” he sighed. “The boy can stay.”

\---

Ruby red port gleamed in the firelight as Owain swirled it in his glass. Sweet and rich, another gift from Merric. He leaned back in his chair and watched the flames as they danced on the hearth in his quarters. 

“There was so much I wanted to say,” he sighed. “I had this whole speech planned out in my head…”

“Including how you’d scowl and snort with disdain as you listed out his sins?” Dorian broke in from his seat directly opposite. “I know the feeling.” 

“At least you got your reckoning with your father,” said Owain, recalling their meeting with Halward Pavus at the inn in Redcliffe. “You got to say your piece. And he listened.” 

“I have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t convinced me otherwise, I would have walked right out of that inn.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t get to make that choice. It was made for me, like everything else in my life. I’ll never know what he would have said to me, after all these years.” 

Dorian went quiet and studied him for moment, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. “Your father loved you, Owain, in his way. Even if he had a terrible way of showing it. You might never know why he did what he did. Even if he was alive.”

“I know, I know,” he said, taking a sip and savoring the taste on his tongue. “Thea says I need closure. Learn to let it go.”

“You know I always take her side.”

Owain smirked. “And here I thought we were friends.”

“Why do you think I say things you don’t want to hear?”

Owain snorted and shook his head with mock disappointment.

The creak of rusty hinges and the shuffle of boots on stone turned Dorian’s head toward the door. He smirked and threw back the rest of his wine. 

“That, I believe, is my cue to leave,” he said, rising. “Goodnight, Trevelyan.”

“Dorian,” said Cassandra as she passed him at the top of the stairs. 

“Cassandra,” he nodded in return.

Owain sat and sipped slowly at the rest of his drink, staring blankly into the fire. He mulled over Dorian’s words and looked for answers he wouldn’t find in the flames. He could hear Cassandra moving about the room in her evening routine, undressing and caring for her armor. 

He looked up, finally, when she sank into the spot Dorian had vacated, dressed in her breeches and an old shirt of his that she had taken to sleeping in. She sat with one leg tucked beneath her, her fingers picking at the padded arms of the chair. She knit her brows and frowned at him. Something was bothering her, but he knew if he waited long enough, she would explain. 

“What your brother said,” she began a moment later. “About your inheritance. Is that… is it important to you?”

He arched a brow at her. “You’re asking if I care about lands and titles? I should think you know me better than that by now.”

She pursed her lips. “But it’s your birthright,” she went on, voice tighter than usual. “Your family… Their legacy...”

Owain set his glass on the floor under his chair and leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees. 

“What is this about, Cass?” he asked mildly, studying her face in the gold firelight. “I’m a mage. I own nothing, remember? Anything I have--everything--it’s what the Inquisition has given me. Apart from that, I have no titles. I’m not even an Enchanter anymore, now that the Circles are gone. I have no possessions or treasure to speak of.” 

He spread his empty hands and looked down at them, the thin lyrium-infused band on his right catching the glow of the flames. 

“Hell, my Circle ring is the only thing I have from before the Conclave, and that’s only because silver doesn’t burn,” he shrugged. “Even what Merric has promised is little more than a gesture. He and Celia might still have a child. Or he could live forever. Who knows?”

Cassandra’s eyes had been fixed on his, but she looked away now and twisted her hands in her lap. 

“You… You do not wish for an heir? I am… not young, you know, and if you…”

He opened his mouth for a quick response, but stopped himself short. _Ah._ And suddenly he understood. He took a deep breath and sat up in his chair. With an open hand, he beckoned to her. 

“Come here, my love.”

She did as he asked, coming to stand between his knees. He took her hands and rubbed his thumbs gently over her knuckles, over her cool, slender fingers. He let his eyes trail slowly upward until they met hers, hazel clouded with doubt he wanted to dispel forever. 

“Everything that matters, I have right here,” he began, squeezing her hands in his. “I never thought I’d find you--find _this_ \--after I went to the Circle, never mind a family.” He took a deep breath and went on, his voice going rough and low. “I have no use for _heirs._ But a _child…_ Made of you and me… That would be more than I’ve ever hoped for. We are not so old. If we were blessed with a child, I would love him with all my heart.”

She swallowed, her eyes shiny with the threat of tears. “And if not?” she whispered.

He smiled faintly and shook his head. “I love you, Cassandra, and I will have no other.”

She drew a shaky breath and pulled one of her hands away to scrub the back of it across her eyes. Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to his. He could taste the salt on her skin, and it made him want to pull her close and bear it away on his tongue. He cupped his hand to her jaw and kissed her with all that he was, for everything they had been through together and for the future that was to come. 

They separated for air, and he made to stand up with her, but she pushed him back into the chair. His surprise melted into a slow smile as he watched her step back and loosen the ties at her waist, pushing and kicking her breeches to the floor. She climbed into his lap, planting her knees astride his hips and pressing her hands to his shoulders. 

“What’s this?” he asked with a sly curve to his lips, smoothing his hands up her muscled thighs, up her hips and the narrow of her waist, confirming that she did not, in fact, have anything on under that shirt of his. 

She smiled at him, and, Maker, he would have done _anything_ for her. 

“You said you wanted a child, my love,” she whispered as she tipped his face up to hers. “I see what must be done, and I do it.”

He started to laugh, but it was lost under the crush of her mouth. Instead, a groan rumbled deep in his throat, and he surrendered everything to her. Mind, body, and soul. 

She was determined, and he had learned long ago that it was useless to argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bang Bang. ;)
> 
> Thanks for your patience with this one. Hope it was worth the wait. <3


	26. As the Crow Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love and duty, over distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I busted my usual word count on this one, so buckle up. Loooong chapter! Contains The Fluff We Deserve, and also Smut. NSFW, y'all.

Owain stood on the battlements and waited. His eyes scanned the road below Skyhold, which remained empty, unchanged since the last pass of his searching gaze not half a minute earlier. He sighed and touched his coat, where he had tucked the single, flawless rose cut from the garden for this occasion, hidden in an inner pocket over his heart to save it from the wilting heat of his restless, fidgeting hands. 

It had been two months apart. Two whole months—the longest stretch yet, and he feared they were only getting longer. His rational brain knew these separations were necessary, knew that Cassandra’s work rebuilding the Seekers—locating survivors, training new recruits, and righting the wrongs committed by her predecessor—was important, not just to her but to Thedas. And his own work, the ongoing work of the Inquisition, required him to be here at Skyhold or out there in the field, closing rifts and keeping the peace. 

His head knew all this. But his heart? That traitorous part of him couldn’t help feeling the bottomless ache of her absence. It was there with him always, just as she used to be, in the cold, empty pillow where her warmth should have been, in the thin coat of dust on the books by her chair, in Blackwall’s shield at his back, not hers. 

They wrote letters. It wasn’t the same, but it was something. The things he saw and did and thought during his days, the things he would have shared with her, he stored them up instead. Saved them to spill across a page of parchment later. He imagined her reading them beside a campfire along the road or in dim candlelight in some far flung inn. 

His advisors had learned to deliver her letters immediately, and holding them for a more “convenient” time only meant risking his wrath. It was petulant, he knew. But—really—was it _so_ hard to put the things in his hands? 

He would tuck one in his pocket and steal away to his quarters at the first available moment, battling the urge to rip it open all the way up the stairwell. He’d hold out until he reached the sanctity of his bed, a chair by the fire, or the balcony before giving in and tearing off the seal so his desperate eyes could devour her words. 

He had come to love these, the curves and lines and loops of her neat, efficient hand, just as he loved the woman herself. There was joy in reading her words, in hearing of her comings and goings, the details of her daily life, no matter how trivial. And then there was the closing, a bittersweet reminder that she was his, always and forever, but of her words there would be no more until the next letter. He would squeeze his eyes shut and breathe and feel that ache in his chest. Then he would open them and begin again from the beginning, and repeat, until he could recite it from memory. 

The last of her missives was sent from an Inquisition camp in the Dales, just a few days’ ride from Skyhold. It had marked today for her return, which was confirmed by scouts in the foothills. And so he found himself here on the battlements, watching this maddeningly empty road. A cool wind swept down from the mountains and ruffled his coat, bringing with it the crisp smell of fall. 

Things had grown quieter around Skyhold these past months. Fiona and many of the rebel—no, “free,” he should stop saying “rebel”—mages had left to start the College of Enchanters, or else to go their own separate ways. A good number, however, had stayed, particularly the apprentices and old instructors. Mages still needed a place to learn, and many of them no longer had homes to return to. A formal substitute for the educational role of the Circles was one of the many items on the College’s agenda, but thus far they had been preoccupied with sorting out basic rules of governance. Nothing but indecision and petty squabbles, as Althea reported on her last visit. In the meantime, the Inquisition remained a place of shelter for mages with nowhere else to go. 

Vivienne left shortly thereafter, presumably to return to Val Royeaux and counteract whatever Fiona and the others were building. There were rumors of her machinations among the “loyal” mages, though precisely what these efforts amounted to yet remained a mystery. 

Varric went back to Kirkwall, but not without the promised game of Wicked Grace. To no one’s surprise, Josephine fleeced them all again, but this time Owain managed to bow out before lightening his pockets too much. He had not, however, shown the same forbearance in other areas. Just remembering the day-after hangover made him shudder to himself. 

They had all gone to Val Royeaux to see Leliana installed as the new Divine. It was jarring to see her in those white robes and that ceremonial hat, a spymaster’s cowl no longer. She had lost no time in making changes, declaring new rights for mages and opening the doors of the Chantry to all. It was causing quite a stir among the clergy and nobility of southern Thedas, but Owain couldn’t bring himself to muster much sympathy for them. 

Everything else was much the same. Josie continued to develop their connections. Cullen kept what remained of their forces in fighting condition, even if most of their missions now consisted of peacekeeping and rebuilding. Charter did an admirable job managing their spy network. Bull was still around, along with his Chargers. Blackwall, too, of course. Cole haunted his corner of the tavern attic as before, and Sera talked of leaving, of doing some work with the Jennies, but as far as he could tell, she had yet to do anything about it. He still checked his pillows nightly for bees. 

Most evenings, Dorian would join him for a nightcap in his quarters. They would talk magic (Dorian) or the latest Inquisition gossip (also Dorian), or Cassandra’s latest letter (Owain). Sometimes they would talk about their fathers and their pasts, or about the state of Thedas now that the Breach was closed. There was unrest in Tevinter, Dorian had heard, upheaval from the Venatori and their complicity in Corypheus’s war. It would be time, soon, for him to go home. Owain didn’t want to think about losing yet another friend. 

His mind drifted back to Cassandra, about his designs for their time together. It would be a brief stay, according to her letters, for her plans would shortly take her back to Orlais. But he had resolved to make the most of it, to make every moment count. 

He glanced at the road again. Deserted.

Maker, he missed her. He missed her voice, her smell, the feel of her in his arms. He had no doubt she felt the same. It was always so… charged when she returned, when they reunited after a time apart. Robbed of each other’s touch, they would come together with terrifying intensity. It made his blood heat, thinking of it now, only sharpening his anticipation for her arrival. 

Once, they didn’t even make it back to their room. Unable to bear the walk through the Great Hall and the delay of greetings and small talk, they had ducked into the forge, the old alcove where she used to sleep. Everything was hot kisses, gasps and moans, hands grasping and reaching and wanting. 

They had shucked off their armor and clothing, or at least the necessarily pieces, and there above the furnaces, amid the crash of hammers and hiss of quenching metal, he had _fucked_ her, pressed his fingers between her legs to find her more than ready, freed his cock from his leathers and hilted himself in her waiting, willing heat, even as she braced herself against the wall, as her hungry mouth claimed his, as her leg wrapped around his hips and her hands clutched roughly at his shoulders. Fast and hard, hard and fast, he had taken her. They had taken each other. Overheating. And the _sounds_ she had made… Maker, she was perfect like that. 

A banner flapped loudly in the breeze, and it jolted him back to reality. He shook himself and sighed, running a hand through his hair. His breeches were suddenly tighter, and he shifted uncomfortably in place. 

_Stop._ It was not helping matters, and it would never do to meet her in this state. 

_Or would it?_

Before he could get any further with that thought, a shout went up from the watch on the nearest tower, and he looked down at the road to see riders, at last. Three horses: the Lady Seeker and two more.

It was her. She was back. His heart did somersaults in his chest. 

He followed their progress as they wound up the road to the fortress, as they made their way through the gates and pulled to a stop in the dusty courtyard. Cassandra swung off her mount and looked up at the walls. She knew where to find him by now. Her eyes caught his and lit with a smile meant just for him. 

She handed the reins to Will Upton, who had proven himself to be quite a gifted stable hand, if a rather mediocre mage, in his months with the Inquisition. Owain felt an obligation to the boy, given their connection, but it had proved challenging to get through to the lad. At least Dennet was well pleased with him. 

Cassandra had turned and was speaking to her companions. One was a tall, red-headed woman wearing heavy Seeker plate and a large sword on her back. Seeker Emery, if he recalled correctly. The other was a strapping young man with dark hair and bronzed skin in standard-issue armor. This must be Jasper, the new initiate. Cassandra had failed to mention that he was rather classically handsome. Owain frowned. 

_Are you jealous?_ asked a petty voice in his head. _No,_ he decided. Or _yes,_ but only so much as he envied anyone who spent time with Cassandra when he could not. 

He turned away from the scene in the courtyard and leaned back against the stone wall. His eyes wandered upward, tracking the white clouds as they skidded across the autumn-blue sky. This was a game he played with himself, this waiting, seeing how long he could hold himself back before running down to greet her. His patience was like a cord held taut, strained to nearly breaking. 

The sound of soles slapping the steps in a well-known rhythm told him it was her. She paused as she gained the walkway, and his gaze slid toward her as if drawn by some invisible, undeniable force. The corner of his mouth ticked upward as their eyes met. A second later, his resolve snapped, and he all but ran toward her. She did the same, and they met somewhere in the middle, colliding in a grinning, laughing hug that squeezed the breath from his lungs and lifted her on her toes, swaying and skimming over the stones underfoot. Owain barely registered the dull crunch against his chest as he let himself get swept into the moment.

He set her down and kissed her, and suddenly all was right with the world. His fingers brushed her cheeks, and she brought her gloved hands up to hold them there. The press of her lips against his was familiar but no less precious for it, the taste of her sweeter than memory. She flicked her tongue against his, and it stoked the fire he had banked only minutes earlier. It roared to life in his belly. 

They parted, and he rested his forehead against hers, smiling like an idiot. And then, with a surge of panic, he remembered the rose in his pocket. 

_Shit._

He stepped back and shot her a wordless apology as he pulled the mangled flower from his coat. The stem had snapped just below the head, which dangled by a fiber now. The blossom itself was crushed, petals bruised and fanned in all the wrong directions. 

There went his romantic gesture. He sighed. She said nothing but sucked her lips between her teeth and teased him with eyes full of mirth. 

He looked at her and looked at the rose, and then he knew how to salvage this moment. He took what was left of the stem in one hand and pinched the petals with the other, tearing them off from the base. Still coasting on this whim, he loosened them in his palm and tossed them in the air, showering them in a flurry of petals. He grinned at her, probably looking far too pleased with himself. 

Cassandra huffed out the laugh she was holding, but she couldn’t hide the charmed gleam in her eyes. There was very little she could hide, from him. Her face settled into a soft smile, the one he loved so much. Reaching up to pluck a petal from his hair, she brushed it slowly and gently down his forehead, between his brows, and over the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and savored it, felt his skin tingle at her touch. 

She paused when she reached his lips. Opening his eyes and fixing them on hers, he pressed a kiss to her lingering fingers. The petal was cool silk on his skin, her leather glove warm and smooth. With another smile, she pulled back and brought the petal to her nose and breathed its sweet scent. 

“It is good to be home,” she said. 

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. 

Her eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun, and he thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But then, he was always thinking that, with her. 

He took her hand and laced their fingers together to walk back toward the keep, taking the long way around. 

“How was the journey?” he asked. 

“We made good time. Were you waiting long?”

“No. It only _felt_ like forever.”

She snorted. “Jasper’s horse had trouble on the road through the pass this morning. Perhaps a problem with its hoof.”

“That path has always been problematic,” he observed. “We really should put in some improvements if it’s going to be so well-traveled. As for the horse, you should ask Will to have a look at it.”

“I did. He seemed to think it was nothing a few days’ rest and an herbal poultice could not repair.”

“Then he’s probably right. If only he paid so much attention to his magic.”

“Does he not apply himself?” she asked with an arched brow. “He seems a conscientious sort.”

“He is,” Owain allowed. “Selectively. I can barely get him to do his exercises. His defensive wards are all wrong, and he’s still having the dreams.” Owain frowned and rubbed at his jaw. “They’re still working out an alternative to the harrowings, but at this rate it’s only a matter of time before a demon gets through to him...”

He trailed off and looked up to find Cassandra eyeing him shrewdly. 

“What?”

“Do you speak like this to him?”

“No…” _Did he?_ “I— Well. I see no point in hiding the truth.”

“Not hiding it, but perhaps you could be more positive. Perhaps he needs you to believe in him before he can believe in himself.”

Owain smirked. “Is the bold, brash Seeker advising me to be gentle?”

She was undeterred. “I can be harsh when the situation demands. Our soldiers in battle, or Chantry clerics...“

“Or stubborn Inquisitors?”

“Especially,” she said with a pointed look. “But he is almost a child. I have found that young students often respond better to encouragement, rather than threats.”

“I suppose that’s just what I’m used to,” he muttered. “I don’t understand why he can’t grasp the concepts. I had students at the Circle, but they all showed at least some basic ability…” 

He trailed off, realizing the full implications of his words. His students hadn’t had such challenges because any mage who couldn’t defend themselves against demons would have failed their harrowings. They’d be dead. Will was a frustrating lad to be sure, but he hardly deserved that fate. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he relented, remembering the stakes at hand.

“Mm,” she replied, which was her way of saying, “Of course I am.” 

“And how goes the training of your protege?”

Cassandra considered a moment before answering. “Jasper makes reasonable progress. He has some bad habits with his shield that I have needed to correct. It is only by the Maker’s grace that he was on his vigil when Lord Seeker Lucius came to power, and he managed to escape the fate of his original mentor.”

“Have you found any others yet?”

“No, but we have leads. Emery knows of Seekers who were sent abroad before the war. We may be able to contact them yet.”

“This is your meeting in Val Chevin.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “We may find some of them there.”

“And then?” he asked with half hope, half dread. “What’s next?” He knew that resolve in her look. It both impressed him and terrified him to hear of her plans. He was so proud of what she had done and what she wanted to do, but he feared it meant leaving him behind. 

“We continue,” she said simply. “We build. The Seekers will need a new home. A place to train and gather our strength.”

He knew the answer but asked it anyway. “Can Skyhold not be that home?” 

She shook her head. “You know it cannot. Skyhold is the Inquisition. To live up to our ideals, the Seekers of Truth must be independent, free from the claims of the Chantry, the Empire, and yes, even the Inquisition. We must defend the weak and speak the truth, free of any obligations that may color our judgement.”

“Must you be free of me?”

“Of course not.” She paused where she stood and tugged on the hand linked with his. Close like this, she propped her chin on his shoulder and looked up into his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

He did. A small smile played at his lips. “Then where will you go? If there is anything you need—ever—you have only to ask.”

She smiled back and turned to set her sights on the path ahead. They had almost reached the main keep. “There is a stronghold that belonged to the Seekers of old. A fortress in the Hunterhorn Mountains. Emery says it has fallen into disrepair, but the structure should be sound. It could be rebuilt, as we have done here at Skyhold. It would be an ideal place for us.”

The Hunterhorns. Owain tried to recall where he had seen that name on a map. His mind conjured a line of peaks somewhere north of Orlais, and his face fell. “That sounds awfully far.”

“It is, yes,” she admitted with a tinge of regret. “But the seclusion may be what we need at the moment.”

“Can I go with you?” he asked as he reached for the door. He was only half-joking.

“You are the Inquisitor,” she reminded him with a wistful smile, as if he could forget. “You can hardly drop everything to follow me across the continent.”

He smirked but said nothing else as he held the door and followed her through it, grateful that she couldn’t see the expression that came next. He could already feel that ache again. 

\--

In honor of her return, he had filled their room with candles. The flickering light was low and uneven, but he didn’t really need to see words he had learnt by heart long ago. Cassandra lay beside him in their bed, head tucked against his shoulder and listening intently as he read. 

He couldn’t help stealing glances at her. The soft press of her body bared against his was far more interesting than the book of verse in his hand. Her hazel eyes glowed in the candlelight, and he revised his thought from earlier. Sunlight was nice, but _this_ was how they were most captivating. 

Owain finished the poem and closed the book, leaning to toss it on a nearby table. He settled back next to Cassandra and rolled to prop himself over her. 

Brushing the hair from his forehead, she hummed with pleasure and traced her fingers over the angles of his face. 

“I missed this,” she whispered. 

He smirked and rolled his hips. “Which part?”

“The poetry,” she said, smiling wickedly.

He growled with mock offense. “That sounds like a challenge.” 

“Everything is a challenge to you,” she chuckled, with a shake of her head. Then something caught her attention, and her hands paused in their study of his face. She frowned, rubbing her thumb at a spot below his left eye. “What’s this?”

Shifting his weight to free one of his hands, he reached up and felt a fine, raised scar on his cheek. “Oh, this? Nothing. Another one for the collection. We cleaned up a nest of varghests when we were in the Approach last month. One of them popped out of nowhere and nicked me.”

She furrowed her brows at him. “I should speak to Blackwall about guarding your blind spots. He should be more careful.”

“You will do no such thing! He does a fine job. It’s my fault for being reckless. I underestimated the beasts.” He twinkled his eyes at her, both annoyed and amused by her concern. “Even you can’t protect me all the time.”

His answer clearly did not satisfy her, so he turned the question on her. “Are we doing inspections now?” he asked archly. “I could ask the same of you. What’s this here?” He pointed to a dark line along her shoulder.

She twisted her head to see. “A lucky dagger. Bandits on our way across the Dales.”

“You were hit?” His eyes widened. It was his turn to be upset. “You didn’t mention that in any letter.” He leaned back and touched a hand to the scar, feeling no magic there. “Nor did you see a healer.”

“It was a flesh wound only,” she said dismissively. “A scratch. Our potions and herbs were more than adequate.”

Owain sighed at the defiant glint in her eyes. What did it matter, these minor injuries? But somehow they felt bigger than that. They were reminders of all the moments they missed in each other’s daily lives. Reminders that they spent more time apart than together, these days. He didn’t want to think about that right now, so he leaned down to kiss her instead, to play out his frustration with a nip of his teeth and thrust of his tongue. She kissed him back just as hard, and he almost forgot about the rest. 

He broke from her mouth and moved down her jaw, grazing the delicate column of her throat. Every sensitive spot, he knew them all, and he made a tour of them now, drawing constellations on her skin. Each sound he pulled from her was sweeter than the last, and it made him greedy for more. 

His hand caressed up her side, from her hips to the curve of her breast. 

“Are you sure it was the poetry?” he murmured beside her ear.

A soft, exquisite moan was his only answer. But as if refusing to be outdone, she dragged her hands down his body, scraping her nails over his chest and stomach, stroking her palm against the already hard length of him. He hissed out his breath and nearly saw stars. _Fuck, that felt good._

But tonight was about her, not him, so he caught her hands and pinned them firmly in place on either side of her head. 

“Don’t move,” he warned. She smirked and reached for him again the moment he let go, so he restrained her once more. “Do you think I’m joking? That’s an order, Lady Seeker.” 

“Oh?” She wiggled her hips beneath him, though she stopped struggling otherwise. “I am not sure you outrank me anymore, Lord Inquisitor.” 

“In this castle, I do,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips across her collarbone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, His Worship must do some worshipping.” 

Her laugh turned into a throaty gasp as he brought his mouth to her breast and flicked his tongue over its pebbled tip. 

He took his time with her. Every scar, old and new, he blessed with a kiss. Every muscle and bone and curve and dip he measured with his fingers, mapped with his tongue. And she let him, keeping her hands where he’d put them with uncharacteristic patience. Patience that deserved to be rewarded. 

Her knees fell open for him as he settled his shoulders between them. Anticipating what was to come, she bit her lip and craned her neck to look down at him. Knowing she wanted this only made him want to tease. He smirked and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, watching her watch him. He smoothed his hands up and down her thighs, making her squirm. 

“Owain... Please.” 

It was almost a whimper, and it was so sweet he couldn’t deny it. He locked his eyes on hers as he bent over her, starting from her navel and planting a line of slow kisses until he reached the soft curls between her legs. He parted them with a finger that he dragged along her folds, groaning at the hot slick he found there. 

She jerked up from the mattress when he finally pressed his mouth to her heat. Breaking from his command, she brought her hands down to twist in his hair. Her nails dragged across his scalp as he dipped his tongue inside her, a sharper tug as he wrapped his lips around her pearl. It felt too good to stop her. 

She was always so magnificent when she came. His name was like magic on her tongue. 

He wiped his face on her inner thigh and stretched himself over her as she panted and quivered with her release. Leaning down to cover her mouth with an urgent kiss, he took her hand and twined their fingers together, pressing them into the pillow beside her head. His cock would wait no longer, so he pulled her leg up over his shoulder to angle her hips and spread her wide for him. And then at long last, he thrust himself home. 

They both cried out as their bodies joined. The noise he made was a low, guttural groan. He hardly knew where it came from. But fuck, she was so good. She took him so _deep_ \--so wet, so tight, so hot beneath him. Like they were made for each other. Digging her nails into the back of his hand, she bucked against him and pulled him down for a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and desire.

There was no way he’d last, not like this. From the sounds she was making, she wouldn’t either, for a second time. She arched her neck back and closed her eyes as he rocked into her, but he tilted her up to face him. 

“Ah— no, please—” he begged, barely keeping it together now. “Look at me, Cass. Look at me, my love.”

She did as he asked, and he changed his mind again—for the last time, he was certain. No, as much as he loved her eyes by day or in candlelight, this, here, _now_ was how he loved them best: heavy-lidded and fluttering in ecstasy, fixed on his, the distance of a mere breath away. She stood at the edge of a precipice of pleasure he had led her to, and she beckoned for him to follow, to fall with her, to fly tumbling and spinning over it. 

And he was all too glad to go. One last snap of his hips, and he finished inside her, gasping her name, just as she did his. And it was perfect, like it always was. 

He let her leg slide down to the mattress and rested his forehead against her shoulder as he caught his breath. He kissed her damp skin, just over the offending dagger scar. Then he rolled off of her, and they lay panting side by side. He was still holding her hand.

“I’m yours, Cassandra. You know that, right?”

“And I am yours. Always and forever, my love.”

\--

Will waited for him at the gate, as he did most days when Owain was at Skyhold, ready with the horses for their morning ride. He was always early, no matter what time Owain arrived in the yard. Even on a wet, soggy morning like today. 

Owain had taken to using these as their lessons, finding that the boy learned best in his comfort zone, and the physical exertion helped cut the awkward silences that settled on them otherwise. If he was honest with himself, he took his own selfish pleasure from these outings. They were a chance to get away from the keep and be free of the trappings of his title, if only for an hour. 

“Good morning, Will,” he said brightly as he took the offered reins and hauled himself into the saddle. “Ready to practice those wards today?”

“Yes, Lord Trevelyan.” He nodded and waited for Owain to seat himself before mounting his own horse. 

“You know you don’t need to call me that? I am not my brother.” They had been over this countless times. 

“Yes, Your Worship.”

 _Well, that was no better._

He knew from experience that further discussion of this subject would get nowhere, so he just sighed and pulled his hood up against the weather. Nodding to the guard at the gate, he urged his horse through. Ember, he had named her, and she was every bit as fast as promised. Winding mountain roads, however, were no place for speed, so he kept her at a slow trot until they reached the even ground of the valley below. 

Their usual route took them down through a line of trees and along a shallow mountain stream that swelled and shrank with the seasons. It was a relative trickle now, giving them plenty of open space to walk their horses side by side. 

The air was damp. Not enough for proper rain, just a thick fog that dusted their clothes with silver droplets and wreathed their view of the mountains above. A tough day for fire magic, though a good one for keeping it under control. Their lessons often hinged on the latter. 

Will’s magic was all or nothing, either completely suppressed or spilling out when he least expected. It was this lack of control that worried Owain. It was the kind of thing that led to accidents, the kind of thing that left him prone to possession. Too many openings for a demon to hook its claws in, to crack your shell and make you give, make you lose everything. 

Fire was Will’s natural element, just as it was Owain’s, but the one time he had tried to teach him to wield it, they had nearly started a forest fire. Without Owain’s precautionary barriers and quick reflexes, they would not have emerged unscathed. 

He had lessons with the other apprentices back at Skyhold, of course, but it was clear to Owain from the instructors’ reports that Will was lagging behind. Owain tried not to make these sessions feel like remediation, but the boy had to know by now. It was plain in the way his shoulders stiffened when they met in the courtyard each morning, in the grim, stoney look that met Owain’s every suggestion. 

Still, he had to try, and he thought now of Cassandra’s advice. _Be more positive._ Sure. The trick was always in the details. 

“I heard you did a fine job with the young Seeker’s horse,” he began, trying to coax the boy out of his shell. “Dennet speaks very highly of your instincts.”

Will shifted in his saddle but said nothing. 

“Impressive for a lad your age,” he went on. _Maker, anything to fill the silence._ “Did you learn all of that from your father? Back on the estate?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Did you know we used to play together, as boys? He and my brother and a few others. We had the run of the place. Did a fair amount of work in the stables, too, since I was old enough to hold a shovel. I bet it was much the same for you, no?”

“Since I was five, my lord.”

“Ah, then that makes you quite the veteran of horse shit.”

The boy furrowed his brows and shot him an odd look from the corner of his eyes. Owain smirked back, but he had run out of things to say, so they rode on quietly for a while. 

After about a mile, the stream fed into a small shallow pool where they stopped. They swung off their horses and let them drink, settling on some rocks near the water’s edge.

It was here that they conducted the bulk of their lessons. Ice magic was what they used, practicing spells that drew on the moisture in the air and in the pond. Safer than fire, and easier to contain. But even this proved a challenge for the boy. 

They started, as always, with the basics. Meditation and mental exercises to ready the spirit and gather willpower to balance and fuel their magic. For the lad, these were meant to teach focus and control, build resources and habits that would help him fend off attacks from the malicious entities of the Fade. They remained useful even for Owain, a chance to clear his mind and center himself, to sharpen his focus for the tasks ahead. 

The inward nature of these exercises, however, made it difficult to tell how closely Will adhered to instructions and how diligently he practiced these skills. From the results of his spell casting, not very. Owain reminded himself again to be positive.

To his surprise, it was Will who broke the silence this time. 

“May I ask you a question?”

His eyes snapped toward the boy, who hugged his knees to his chest and seemed deeply interested in the water lapping at the foot of the boulder on which he perched. 

“Yes, of course. Anything.” 

A pensive moment followed as Will considered his question and Owain racked his brain for what might come next. 

What questions did boys ask? What was he thinking at that age? Despite his youngish appearance, Will was in fact almost fourteen. Was that too young to be interested in girls? Or boys? Or… _Shit._ He was not equipped to have that conversation. A wave of mild panic washed over him. 

Then the boy spoke, and it was all for naught. 

“How do you become Tranquil?” Will asked.

Owain tilted his head and blinked at the question. First relief, and then confusion. 

“What… What makes you ask that?” 

The boy shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “I heard some of the others talking about it. They said it’s a way to get rid of your magic. So you can’t hurt anyone.”

“Why would you want to get rid of your magic? It’s a gift—”

“No, it’s not!” Will was suddenly on his feet, glaring at Owain with his hands curled into fists at his sides. “And I’m sick of everyone saying that! It’s not a gift. It’s a curse! Everyone’s afraid of me. They made me leave. I had to come here. And I can’t do anything right!”

Owain was taken aback by this sudden outburst. “That’s not—”

“I can see it in your eyes!” he spat. “You’re only teaching me because you feel sorry for me. You feel guilty. Well, sorry. Sorry you got stuck with a failure. Sorry I’m not a genius like the others!”

Owain’s brows shot into his hair, and his mouth dropped open. He didn’t know what to say, but the boy’s words touched a nerve within him. He bit his teeth together and ground out a response. 

“Fine. You asked, so as your teacher, I’ll answer. The Rite of Tranquility severs a mage’s connection to the Fade. Some mages seek it of their own volition, but more often, it’s done as a punishment. A check for dangerous mages. It is done with a lyrium brand, by a First Enchanter, or Templars. And yes, it will get rid of your magic.”

The boy was still standing, but his shoulders had gone soft, like the fight had gone out of him. “Then, maybe--”

“But you should know, it also gets rid of everything else.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean _everything._ Your imagination, your creativity, your emotions. All of it.”

“But, why would—”

“Your magic is part of you, whether you like it or not. Losing it means losing everything else that makes you you.” Owain found his temper rising, but he wasn’t willing to stop. “Are you ready for that? To never dream again? Never fall in love? Feel joy with your family and the people you care about? Because that’s what you’d be giving up. Just because you can’t bear to do a few simple exercises.”

The fists were back. Will’s brown eyes flashed with anger. “You don’t understand!” 

“Then make me.”

“You’re— You’re the Inquisitor! You’re one of the greatest mages in history! I’m just—nobody! I just want everything to go back to normal. I just want to work in the stables and forget all this.”

Owain studied the boy and sighed through his nose. If he only knew how similar they really were. That Owain wasn’t so great at all. And if he could, he’d trade everything for a normal life. His anger was suddenly gone. 

“Look, you can do that if you want,” he said gently. “No one’s asking you to give up what you like and what you’re good at. We just need you to learn to defend yourself. For your safety, and everyone else’s. There’s no easy fix here. You are your magic, and the sooner you stop fearing it, the sooner you can learn to master it.”

Will said nothing. He had crumpled, curled up on the rock again. His face looked like he was about to cry.

Owain sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he was going about this all wrong. He tried to think back to his own development as a mage, those early days at the Circle, and his own struggle to accept what he was. How had he done it? What was it that reminded him of who he was, even now?

He got up from the rock and crossed over to the boy, crouching beside him. 

“Here. Try this.” Owain closed his fist and opened it, calling forth a small, controlled flame in his hand. 

The boy stared at it in wonder, and then frowned at him. “I thought you said we couldn’t do fire magic yet. Too dangerous.” 

Owain shook his head. “You know the meditation we did earlier? Do that, but concentrate on pulling the tiniest bit of power from the Fade, like a thread. Channel it through you, through your mana, and control it with your will, like an extension of yourself.”

The boy was intrigued, in spite of himself. He gripped his hand by the wrist and screwed his face in concentration. A small flame burst to life in his palm. He gasped in surprise and recoiled as it expanded into a fireball. 

“Watch it!” Owain swept the magic away with a wave of his arm. “But that was good. Try it again.”

He did, managing to hold the spell for a few seconds before it sputtered out. 

“Good,” said Owain, fixing his eyes on the boy and pointing to the spot on his palm where the fire had been. “Now remember. That magic? That’s you. That’s yours. You’re in control. Never forget that.”

Will looked at him with cautious understanding. 

“Do it again.”

And he did. Again, and again. Until finally, he could conjure the flame at will and hold it steady, neither fading nor exploding out of control. 

It was mid-morning by now, and that was enough for one day. Will was quiet again on the ride back. He didn’t speak until they returned to Skyhold. 

As they parted, Will took Ember’s reins and looked Owain in the eyes. Owain thought he detected a newfound respect there. “Thank you, Inquisitor,” he said.

Owain simply nodded and watched the boy as he walked away. As Will headed back to the stables, he balled his free hand and opened it, fascinated by the tiny yellow flicker that danced in the breeze. 

Owain smiled to himself as he turned to go back to the keep.

\--

_Dearest Cassandra,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and that the road has been kind to you. We received a request from our allies in Orzammar. They’re asking for Inquisition assistance to investigate some seismic activity that’s disrupting their mining operations in Ferelden. We leave for the Storm Coast tomorrow, and I am not looking forward to fighting darkspawn again._

_Don’t be too pleased with yourself, but you were right. Will has improved markedly. He can successfully handle simple spells now, and he tells me he is no longer having so many nightmares. In fact, he tells me far too many things. Who knew that boy would turn out to be such a talker? I daresay I now know more about the Inquisition’s horses than Dennet himself._

_I hope your meetings in Orlais went well. I think often of your last visit to Skyhold. You’re so beautiful, my love, and I miss you terribly. Until the next time._

_Yours,  
O_

[Enclosed: a dried rose petal]

\--

_My love,_

_We met two more Seekers and an apprentice at Val Chevin. They were as surprised as Emery to hear about Lucius and his attempted destruction of our order. But we are in agreement that we must rebuild. I have shared with them the information in the Lord Seeker’s tome. I am determined that there should be no more secrets among us, that we will all know our past sins. That is the only way to move forward. We ride now for Hunterhorn Keep, to see what may be done there._

_Be careful in the Deep Roads. There is much danger that lurks there. I wish I could go with you, to be your shield._

_I do not know when my path will next lead me to Skyhold, but know that your love sustains me. You are my breath and light and life._

_Always and forever,  
C_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the ongoing support! Your comments give me life. <3
> 
> According to my calculations, I have about 4 chapters left. Next time: Trespasser. :D


	27. House of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the Winter Palace for politics, dancing, and found family, in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter ever. A fluff, angst, smut trifecta! Enjoy!
> 
> (NSFW, of course.)

“Another parade, another bloody negotiation.” 

Cullen grumbled just within earshot. Owain turned in his saddle and hid his smirk behind a friendly wave at the throng gathered to watch them ride toward the gates of Halamshiral. The crowds were a bit smaller each time they went through Orlais these days. Or was that just his imagination?

“You sound almost as enthusiastic as me,” he let slip from the corner of his mouth. 

At this, Josephine swept them with a look that was at once both threatening and perfectly genial. 

“Smiles, both of you,” she hissed through her teeth. “Remember, this is the Game. We must take care how we present ourselves. Our every move will be scrutinized.”

“I still don’t understand why Leliana had to call this Exalted Council at all,” Cullen sighed, making no secret of his scowl. “She’s managed to keep Orlais out of our hair for over a year.”

“At increasing political cost, yes,” Josie replied, with the air of someone explaining something for the hundredth time. (Perhaps not so many, but close.) “Even the influence of Divine Victoria has limits. And the question of the Inquisition’s role now that Corypheus is two-years dead can no longer be ignored.”

“How about leaving us bloody well alone?” Cullen muttered. “That’s a good enough answer for me.”

“If only,” Owain agreed, as if wishing could make it true. His eyes scanned the gallery of finely dressed nobles that lined the outer walls as they passed. “But I suppose they all want something from us? As usual?”

Josie nodded. “Of course. Orlais would seek to control us. Gaspard has not forgotten our role in placing him on the throne, but he has new threats to contend with, as well as those within the Council of Heralds who do not owe us such a debt.”

“If they think we’ll simply go along with whatever they plan—“

“From their many marriage proposals, Commander, I would say they have very specific plans for you.”

Cullen’s face darkened. “I thought I asked you to burn those,” he growled. 

“I had to read a few. They were rather… colorful, shall we say.”

Owain snorted, and Josie turned on him with a playful glint in her eyes. “Don’t think they do not come for you as well, Inquisitor.”

He sputtered, and it was Cullen’s turn to laugh. “Still? Hasn’t word got ‘round by now that I’m not exactly available?”

“You and Lady Cassandra are not married. Even if you were, I am not entirely certain the offers would cease.” He narrowed his eyes to slits, and she chuckled. “Never underestimate nobility with something to gain.”

He could think of nothing else to say. Every time he thought he understood how this world worked, someone would prove him wrong. So he sighed and focused on the road ahead. 

“In any case,” she continued, “it is the Fereldans we need to worry about. They would see us disbanded entirely. They consider the Inquisition a foreign military power. Our very presence at Skyhold unsettles them.”

Owain scoffed. “You’d think a nation that remembers the Blight would be a little more accommodating to the people who saved them from destruction.”

Even without looking, he could sense Cullen’s Fereldan pride bristling at his words. “You could say that about all of them. Ungrateful little—”

“ _Smiles,_ gentlemen!” Josie interjected. They had almost reached the palace. “We are just getting started.” 

\--

The Exalted Council was a highly orchestrated affair. Gaspard took no chances for a repeat of Celene’s final ball, tightening security and sending a representative in his stead. Queen Anora had done the same. The Inquisition, however, was not afforded such conveniences. Owain would gladly have sent Josephine to handle all of this, but his attendance in person was obnoxiously mandatory.

The Inquisition had sent Charter, Iron Bull, and the Chargers as a ground team to prepare for their arrival. There was plenty of work to be done gathering intelligence and learning the lay of the venue, not to mention the necessary logistics of hosting their full delegation. 

They had made themselves at home over the past few weeks. A small barracks on the palace grounds had been assigned to them, and about half of it had been cleared and converted into a makeshift tavern. 

“Charter wanted to play it safe and keep to ourselves until you arrived, but the boys needed a place to unwind,” Bull explained as he pushed open the door and led him into an open room split by a long table and benches. In the corner, a stack of crates served as a bar, its surface topped with an army of glass bottles. Krem was behind it pulling a pint. Where they had managed to secure such a plentiful supply of alcohol, Owain wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“INKY!”

Sera’s arms circled his neck before his eyes could even adjust to the low light. 

“Sera! It’s— good— to see you, too,” he said, recovering his balance and extracting himself from her hug. “How are the Jennies?”

“Oh, alright,” she replied, releasing him to slouch against the edge of the table and rest her bare feet on the bench. “Crashed a caravan from some Lord Piddleshits in Val something-or-other on the way here. (Stupid names, Orlais.) Anyway, turns out it was full of wine! Dorian says it’s good wine, too. _Expensive._ That’ll teach him to cheat his people.” She paused to snicker. “You should have seen his face.”

So that’s where their stash came from. He definitely didn’t want to know. “I see...”

“But here’s you! And everyone! Glad to be back, all stuffed together again.” 

“Is everyone here?” he asked, searching the room. He spotted Varric at a table by the window, arguing over a scatter of parchment with a serious-looking fellow in Free Marcher garb. Otherwise, he recognized some of the Chargers, but that was it. 

“Oh, they’re here somewhere,” she said. “Rainier’s probably in the stables. Still all beardy. Dorian’s been here all week. Big nobby ambassador now. Same though.”

“Yes, he wrote to tell me about that. What about—”

“Owain!”

He turned, and there in the doorway was the answer to his unfinished question. Cassandra closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. What breath wasn’t taken by her embrace was stolen by her kiss. Maker, it was good to hold her. He hadn’t seen her in nearly three months. 

He must have held her too long, because the next thing that registered was a tap on his shoulder. 

“Hey boss, they’ve got a nice room for you up at the palace, but we have some bunks in the next room if you two need some privacy.”

Cassandra pulled back and flashed her eyes at Bull. “That won’t be necessary.”

Owain laughed and took the mug of ale that was handed to him. He and Cassandra sat down at the table as Sera bounded off to speak to the others. 

“Did you arrive just today?” he asked before taking a long drink.

“I left Emery and the others in Val Royeaux and rode down this morning. They will finish our business in the city.”

“Is the keep nearly done now? Perhaps it’s time to plan a visit to the Hunterhorns. I’m disappointed that I still haven’t been.”

“It is too far,” she said with a wistful shake of her head. “Josie would never forgive me if I kept you from Skyhold for so long—you would spend weeks simply traveling. It is enough for us to meet in the capital. ”

She was right, of course. He dropped his voice, just for her. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” she replied in a matching volume, her eyes roving his face. “The sight of you warms the heart.”

She smiled at him then, and his heart sang. Seeing her again, always it was like missing pieces of himself being pushed into place. 

“Are you two done staring at each other?”

Cassandra turned toward the interloper and narrowed her eyes. “Varric.”

“That’s Viscount of Kirkwall Varric, Lady Seeker.”

“Viscount?” she frowned. “They put _you_ in charge? Of all people?”

“Well, strictly speaking, no one else wanted the job. Turns out you fund a few reconstruction projects, express a few opinions, and the nobles start giving you responsibilities.”

Owain couldn’t believe it either. “Didn’t think you were the type for civic leadership.”

“They picked me because I got the harbor and the businesses running again,” Varric shrugged. “They want shit fixed, and I can do that. Besides, my secretary Bran here does most of the work. Keeps me in line.” He gestured over his shoulder at the man he’d argued with earlier. 

“I am the Seneschal, Master Tethras. _Not_ your secretary.”

Varric waved him off and reached into his coat for a paper packet that he handed to Owain. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping to catch you before the summit began. Got a bit of a present for you.”

Owain unfolded the parchment and out dropped a heavy metal key. He caught it in his hand and scanned the words on the page. “Is this a deed? For property?”

“You’re the proud new owner of a Hightown estate,” said Varric, clapping him on the shoulder. “Congratulations! You should stop by sometime. I’ve had it cleaned up. It’s pretty nice. For Kirkwall anyway.”

“Master Tethras!” Bran interjected, wringing his hands. “You can’t actually do that! It’s against protocol. Proper distribution of empty estates requires approval from the Council.”

Varric sighed and rolled his eyes theatrically. “What’s the point of being Viscount if I can’t abuse my power to give shit to my friends? Isn’t that tradition? Besides, I thought you were going to leave us to talk.”

“But you— ugh!” Bran threw his arms up in disgust and stalked away toward the bar.

“I hope you’re paying him well.”

“Too well.”

Owain studied the deed again. “Why does this say ‘Comte’ Trevelyan? Is that me?”

“Oh, I almost forgot! It comes with a title. Not that you need any more, but consider it a gift. I don’t know how this Exalted Council business will end for you, but this way you’ll always have a place in Kirkwall, if you need it.”

It struck him then that this was the first time he had ever owned anything outright, and the weight of it filled him with unexpected emotion. “Th— thank you, Varric.” He cleared his throat and turned toward Cassandra. “How about it, Cass? Would you fancy being a Comtesse? Even if it is Kirkwall?”

She opened her mouth to reply but stopped short, a crease forming between her brows. Then her eyes flicked to the doorway, which had just opened. 

“Ah, Cullen! Josephine!” she exclaimed and hurried away to greet them. 

He stared after her in puzzlement and then leaned toward Varric. “What did I do?”

Varric chuckled and hooked his leg over the bench to take Cassandra’s empty seat. “I think the question she heard was a little different than the one you asked.”

“Ah.” _Idiot._

“So have you asked her yet?”

“No...” _Why was everyone so interested in that?_

“But you are going to propose, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Of course I have, I just…” He just _what?_ “I just don’t know… how.”

“It’s not hard, you know,” Varric pointed out. “A little romance, a declaration of your undying love. Hell, Cassandra reads my serials. I’m sure she’ll love whatever you come up with.”

Owain shook his head and thumbed the handle of his mug. “It’s not that. I just… I don’t know the first thing about marriage. I don’t even know where to start. Never even been to a wedding. Isn’t that sad? To be a grown man and know nothing about these things?” 

If he was honest with himself, it terrified him. Of course he had thought about it, even before Leliana changed the Chantry laws, and yes, he wanted it. His future was tied to Cassandra’s in every other way, and there was no doubt he wanted to spend it with her. 

But in the world he was born in, marriage was a contract. It was about lineage and status and branches on the family tree. Love was nice to have, if you were lucky, after you satisfied a host of other concerns. His parents’ union had certainly been that way. And after living so much of his life in the Circle, what other examples did he have? No peers of his had ever gotten married, much less had an openly acknowledged relationship. If there was another way, he had no idea what it looked like. 

He had convinced himself it didn’t really matter. They were committed already. Chantry blessings and legal records meant nothing to him. Clearly, however, no one else seemed to agree. 

“I just never thought it was going to happen to me,” he finished, realizing Varric was still waiting for him to speak. “It was always for someone else.”

After another long pause, Varric whistled his breath through his teeth. “The Chantry really did a number on you mages, huh?”

“You can take us out of the Circle, but we can’t get the years back.” Owain washed down his bitterness with the rest of his ale.

“Well, give it some thought anyway,” Varric pressed gently. “Remember, this isn’t the abstract. This is you and Cassandra. You’ll figure things out. You’ve faced much worse.”

His eyes drifted across the room and found Cassandra standing near the door, listening to Cullen. She looked up and met his gaze, sending him a tiny smile that felt private, despite all the other people in the room. In that moment, it was more reassuring than she would ever know. 

“I suppose it can’t be worse than the Breach,” he sighed.

“Exactly. Once you’ve defeated a darkspawn magister, everything else is cake.”

He stewed in his thoughts after Varric rose to get a drink, but he did not have long alone. Sera returned a minute later, dropping onto the bench and propping her elbow on the table. Ale sloshed over the side of her mug as she leaned in confidentially. 

“So, Inky,” she whispered loudly, “what’s this about you tyin’ it?”

He lifted his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. 

She responded with a sage nod. “Better do it soon. Cass needs it on the regular.”

\--

Josie whisked him away for a last-minute briefing before the welcome ball set to begin in just a few hours. His head swam with names and titles, along with a litany of topics to discuss and sore spots to avoid. 

Was it Duke Germain whose daughter had just eloped with an apostate? Or was that Marquis de Blanc? Was Bann Sigurd the one who bred Mabari, or was that Lord Brandon? Hell, they were Ferelden—safe to say probably both. 

By the time he got away, it was already late afternoon, and he was desperate for a moment alone. He closed the door to his spacious suite in the Guest Wing and sighed at the sudden quiet. 

The last light of the day filtered through the curtained windows. He went to one of them and pushed it open, admitting a cool breeze that carried the scent of trees from the courtyard below. He breathed deeply and pretended he was somewhere else. 

Someone had dropped off his pack, and his evening attire hung neatly from the door of an ornate wardrobe that loomed in the corner. Ignoring it for now, he slipped his coat from his shoulders and tossed it on the bed. Then he stripped his shirt and threw that on top. 

Beside the wardrobe stood an enormous tri-fold mirror, bigger than anything they had at Skyhold. What could be more Orlesian? Owain perched on the edge of the bed and looked across at his reflection. His own tired eyes stared back at him. He frowned and his brows furrowed, in triptych. 

A bandage covered his left arm from elbow to palm. He studied it for a moment, then tugged the end free and began to unwind the fraying fabric. He dropped his arm, and the white ribbon of it spiraled to the floor. 

As the bandage fell away, the murky light of the Fade spoiled the room’s dim calm. His mark had spread in the years since Corypheus, the rate accelerating in recent months. Where it used to pulse only intermittently, the glow was now near constant, no longer confined to the gash on his hand but running up his arm in veins of menacing green. He kept it wrapped more for other people’s benefit than his own, though the pressure did help with the pain. 

That, too, was an ever-present blot on his awareness, a dull throb that beat not in time with his own heart but to some alien rhythm of its own. When it flared, he could feel the shooting pain along every inch from his hand to his jaw. Trying to loosen the stiffness in his joints, he stretched his arm out now, squeezed his fingers into a fist, and flexed them out flat. Repeat. 

It wasn’t just physical. The anchor was also key to his abilities as a rift mage. It enabled a connection to the Fade deeper than anything he had ever learned at the Circle or experienced in his dreams. It used to take effort and concentration to draw that power through the Veil and bend it to his will. Now, it poured out unbidden, raw and terrible, fusing with his own mana sometimes so completely that he couldn’t say where it ended and he began. His magic had never been stronger. He could feel it in every burst of flame, every bolt cast. 

And he feared the cost. 

He’d read everything he could find on rifts, the Fade, and ancient elven orbs. He’d written letters, searched archives, consulted every authority he trusted and even some he didn’t. None of them could tell him definitively what this was or how to get rid of it. Solas was the only one who had ever pretended to understand the anchor, and all trace of him had scattered to the winds. 

He took a deep breath and shook out his hand, rising to investigate the crystal decanter of amber liquid that sat on a small table between the windows. He lifted the stopper and sniffed. Satisfied, he poured a measure into one of the offered glasses and downed the first half, leaning a shoulder against the window to sip at the rest. 

No one ever entered unannounced, except Cassandra. It was her now, slipping through and shutting the door quietly behind her. She set her pack on the floor and dropped her gloves in a chair. He stayed where he was and watched.

She frowned at the sight of his glowing mark and crossed to him. 

“It is worse, isn’t it? Since the last time.”

He nodded once and brought the glass to his lips again. 

She arched a disapproving brow and took the drink from him, setting it on the windowsill out of reach. Taking his hand in hers, she brushed her fingertips lightly across his palm, following the trail of green as it blazed up his forearm. The anchor flared, and he winced. 

Pain, fear, doubt. Here in the safety of her presence, he laid it all open. He stopped trying to hide and let it show in the strain about his eyes and every quaking breath. 

It was all reflected back in the worry on her face. She stroked gently up his shoulder and up to his cheek, where her thumb traced the line of his jaw. He closed his eyes and tried to take it all in. Her touch always said more than words ever could. 

“What happens when it reaches my heart?” he whispered as he blinked his eyes open. 

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t expect her to. 

She rocked forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, cool fingers tilting his face down to hers. He looked into her eyes and let them swallow him whole. If he searched long enough, he might find the world there. 

Was it the fear of death? The thought of being parted from her forever? Or maybe he just didn’t want to think at all anymore, but close as they stood, it was still not close enough. He needed more, needed her, needed them to be as close as possible, in whatever time he had left. Erase the months apart, store up promises for the future.

So he kissed her again. And again. And again. Breathed her in and filled his senses with her. He pushed his hand in her hair, trapped her lips between his teeth, let his hunger run rampant. It was by no means one-sided. Her fingers curled at his shoulders and the nape of his neck, and a moan hummed deep in her throat. She shoved him back, hard, against the wall. He smiled at that and pulled her along with him, as if they could melt as one into the plaster. 

Her armor was in the way. The cold steel of it against his bare skin, set against the heat of her—the contrast made him shiver and fueled the fire in his belly. His fingers worked at the ties and clasps that held her together. He knew them by feel now. 

That is, if he could focus. But her hands played at his hips, stroking the tightening front of his breeches and tugging at the waist. It was utterly distracting.

He gasped and broke his mouth away. “That’s hardly fair, love,” he protested. “You had a head start.” 

“Mm.” She smirked and smoothed her hands down his chest, making no effort to assist him. “Then you will need to catch up.”

“Not going to help me?”

She just looked at him with a sly smile and shook her head before reaching for him again and leaning up to plant slow kisses along his jaw. 

_Fuck._ He hissed as she managed to free his cock and proceeded to drag the wrap of her fingers along its length. Despite his familiarity with her armor and its intricacies, his mind blanked and fingers fumbled as all blood in his body rushed elsewhere. 

Finally, finally, he tore the last buckle loose, and then all of it was gone. In a frenzy, he whipped her tunic up and off and crushed her to his chest, the warm, soft entirety of her finally free for his hands to claim. 

And claim he absolutely would. But not here, apparently, since she pulled back and took his hand and led him toward the bed. He stumbled after her, both of them kicking off their boots and breeches along the way. As she crawled backwards onto the bed and he scrambled up to follow, his eyes caught their movement in the mirror on the other side. It gave him ideas. 

“Turn around, love.”

She flashed him a questioning look, even as she did as he asked, turning to kneel away from him on the bed. He fit himself behind her, pulled her back against his chest, and kissed the pulse below her ear. Their eyes met through the glass, and then she understood. 

“Look how beautiful you are,” he whispered against her skin. “I want to see you, my love. All of you.”

He meant every word, letting his eyes linger boldly over her curves, the long line of her body wrapped in his, the tension in her powerful legs folded beneath her on the sheets. His knowledge of her form was an indelible memory, but each time he was with her still felt like a revelation. Perhaps just as fascinated as he was, she watched him watch her and bit her lip in anticipation. 

He did not just use his eyes. His hands wandered in retaliation for the way she had toyed with him earlier. He swept a light touch up her thighs, skated across her hips, squeezed the swell of her breasts and rolled their hard tips. He scratched his stubble over the sensitive spot where her neck met shoulder, then apologized with his tongue. All the while, he watched her, watched the flush rise in her cheeks, watched the heat burn in her eyes. She was his so completely like this. He made her whimper, made her squirm, made her rock her ass in his lap. She wanted more, and so did he, but still he held her fast. 

“You can have me soon enough,” he teased. “But first, I want to watch you come apart for me. Would you like that?”

In answer, she pushed her knees apart and made a soft, needy sound that almost broke his resolve.

Almost. Instead, he smirked and trailed his fingers down her belly and through the curls between her legs. She was so wet, it made him groan. 

Almost. Instead, he pressed his fingers through her slick, drawing slow circles, slipping two inside her and making her eyes flicker and roll in the mirror. She grabbed his wrist to guide him, to hold him in place as she took her own pleasure from his hand. Reaching up to grip his hair, she dragged his face close for a kiss. He didn’t stop, wouldn’t have stopped, not for all the world. 

Except she pulled his hand away and looked at him—not his reflection, but him, craning over her shoulder to meet him face to face. 

“Owain, I need you... Now. _Please._ ”

That was a request he couldn’t refuse. 

He let her go, and she leaned forward, bracing against the mattress as he pulled her hips to him, pressing at the small of her back to angle her just so. He paused a moment to smooth his hands in appreciation over her lovely, perfect ass, soon to be flush against his hips. She looked at him and called his name again. _Always so impatient._

He pushed into her slowly, groaning with every inch. When he had given all of himself, he snapped his hips roughly, just once. She gave a sharp cry and turned to him again. 

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, half plea, half demand.

“As my lady commands,” he said, doing exactly that. He abandoned all restraint, setting a hard pace, gripping her hips and driving himself into her irresistible heat, watching through the mirror as her breasts bounced with every stroke. Her hands clawed at the sheets as he took her. 

It was all too much, but he refused to let himself go before her. So he reached forward and pulled her up again, kneading her breasts with his fingers and teasing between her legs. She keened at his touch and arched against him, even as she continued to move on his cock. 

He was too far gone. There was no more holding back. Nothing left but to beg, bending over to whisper his petitions in her ear. “Come with me, my love... Come with me.” 

And so she did. He thrust deep one more time and spilled himself within her, just as she fell apart in his arms. They cried out and collapsed in a sweaty, tangled mess. As they lay there catching their breath, he leaned down to kiss the back of her neck, blessed each knob of her spine. He wished they could stay like this forever.

But his arm glowed between them, a merciless reminder of reality. 

“I love you, Cassandra,” he said, his voice breaking on the words. “The time we have had... I would not trade it for anything.”

She looked at him fiercely and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Nor would I, my love. There must be a way to stop this, and I will find it. I will not lose you, Owain. Not to this. Not without a fight.”

Overwhelmed, he said nothing else and buried his face in her shoulder. The tears that slipped from his eyes mingled with the sweat on her skin. 

He wanted so badly to believe her. 

\--

He asked Cassandra to save him a dance, and he was soon convinced that without that to look forward to, he might not have made it through the evening at all. 

At Josephine’s behest, he introduced himself to the chief representatives for Orlais and Ferelden. Duke Cyril de Montford was a young member of the Council of Heralds and a professed admirer of the Inquisition. Owain had yet to discern what agenda was hidden beneath his smooth manners and gilded mask, but as to the existence of one, he had no doubt. In contrast, Teagan Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe, was perfectly blunt in his disdain for all the Orlesian ceremony on display. He was just as forthright about Ferelden’s position on the Inquisition. Getting both nations to agree on a suitable compromise was going to be a challenging task, indeed. 

He found Leliana at the front, set a bit apart from the crowds that milled about the rest of the ballroom. Appropriate, perhaps, for the Divine. He joined her at the railing overlooking the dance floor. 

“The first time I came to the Winter Palace, I was eighteen,” she said without taking her eyes from the scene. “I was dazzled. I had never seen anything so fine, so bright. It’s all still here, but I no longer see that same palace.”

“You sound as if you miss it,” he said, leaning against the cool marble.

A wistful smile curved her lips. “It is easier on the heart to see only the surface. Now, I see the suffering of those who make it shine. Many people overlook that pain, but I am Divine, and I cannot be blind.”

“It’s good to see you, Leliana.”

“And you, Inquisitor,” she replied, turning to look at him at last. “Welcome back to Halamshiral. Much has changed since the last time you were here.”

“Not so much.” He squinted at the crowd below. “Everyone out there still wants to bring us down, don’t they?”

“Perhaps not all,” she ventured. “But yes, many do fear the Inquisition. I will do what I can to allay their fears. I may not be your spymaster anymore, but I will help however I can.”

“Any way I can make it easier on you?”

She gave it a moment of thought. “Let yourself be seen. Introduce yourself to the delegates. They need a face to put to the legends.”

He chuckled. “You sound just like Josie, telling me to be social.”

“Is that surprising?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Her laugh was always such a surprise. “Ah, I miss working with you. And Josie and Cullen. I didn’t realize how much I would miss them until they weren’t there.”

“We miss you, too. Charter is excellent, but she doesn’t quite have your style.”

“Few do, Inquisitor,” she said, smiling again.

Josephine appeared then to speak to Leliana. He felt like an intruder, so he left them to it and went in search of a drink. 

Vivienne cornered him on his way out of the room, calling his name just as he reached the doors. Obliged to turn back, he waited as she sailed toward him, arrayed in an admittedly stunning gown of whitest silk. Dorian would be jealous. 

“How have you been, darling? It’s been ages.” 

“Still the Dragon Age, last I checked.”

She gave him a tolerant smile. “Your friends at the College of Enchanters are causing quite a stir.”

 _Not this again._ “You mean by proving that mages can rule themselves? That we can survive outside Chantry prisons without posing a danger to those without our abilities?”

“That remains to be seen, my dear,” she countered smoothly. “Institutions are meant to withstand the test of time, and that is the standard the College must meet. There is much still to be desired regarding the education of young mages, I hear. That was one of the strengths of the Circle system.”

“It was a place to go, certainly,” he allowed. “I’m not sure everyone would agree it was for the best.”

“Perhaps. Even so, a pity to see such structures so easily discarded. How are things at Skyhold?

“Same as always, other than this Council to decide our very existence,” he sighed. “Are you pleased that the Inquisition is being called to account, Vivienne? Full of heretical mages as we are?”

“Quite the contrary, my dear,” she replied, lifting an elegant brow. “However we may disagree on the best ways to govern magic, the fact that you, a mage, have risen to become one of the most powerful men in Southern Thedas is no small accomplishment. Something that all of us can be proud of.”

“Never expected to hear that from you,” he blurted out, immediately regretting it. Still, it was confounding. “Thank you, Vivienne. Truly.”

She nodded. “Remember, Inquisitor, it is not a bad thing to be feared. They would not have pushed for this Council if they did not feel threatened. That is a strength you should use to your advantage.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” she said, sweeping him with an appraising—and not altogether satisfied—look. “Josephine really should have ordered a new coat for you.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with this one,” he said, glancing down. It had served him well on those few occasions over the past year when his armor didn’t suit. 

“Of course you don’t, my dear. But someone ought to think about such things. I’ll have a word with her.” Her eyes slid past him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I see Lady Mantillion, and I simply must have a word with her.”

She breezed past him into the entrance hall, and thus dismissed, he really did need that drink. After securing the object of his quest in the garden wing, he wandered onto the veranda for some much needed air. There was a fountain in the middle of the courtyard, and he walked out to it, preferring the babble of water falling steadily into the pool over the drone of voices indoors. That was where Dorian found him, staring into the liquid black. 

“Are the Inquisition’s coffers so depleted that you need to contemplate stealing people’s wishes?”

Owain turned toward the familiar drawl and greeted his friend with a warm hug.

“How long has it been?” Dorian asked. “No, wait. Don’t actually tell me. You’ll only make me feel old.”

“You and me both.” He couldn’t have hidden his grin if he tried.

“I said don’t remind me.”

“Congratulations on your ambassadorship,” Owain said, finally letting go.

“Ah, yes.” Dorian brandished the glass of wine he had brought with him. “Good thing it’s only a token appointment. A ‘reward for my interest in the South.’ If that isn’t a convenient excuse to send me away, I don’t know what is.”

“Does the Imperium not care about the outcome of the summit?”

“Nominally, we do. In reality? Think about it. Orlais wants the Inquisition tamed, Ferelden wants it gone, the Chantry meddles, and Tevinter sends but one ambassador? Trust me when I say that if the Imperium truly cared, you’d know it.”

“At least we get to see you again.”

“True, it is an excellent reason to be back among friends,” Dorian acknowledged. He turned to sit on a nearby bench, taking care not to crease his robes. “And banter aside, it isn’t nothing. Sending me here in an official capacity does mean they recognize the Inquisition’s power. Not much, but a start, yes?”

“I’m sure a clever man could make much of that,” Owain said, claiming the empty half of the seat. “How was home?”

“How was my father, do you mean?” Dorian shot him a pointed look. “It was fine. We only talked a few times while I was back. I even managed to be civil. You would have been so proud of me.”

“I’m always proud of you, Dorian.”

He laughed, nearly choking on his wine. “I missed this flattery!” he said, thumping a fist to his own chest. “Almost as much as I missed the food!”

“Plenty of that, too, inside,” Owain smirked. They sat in friendly silence for a moment. He’d felt Dorian’s absence more deeply than he realized. 

“How’s your hand?” asked Dorian a minute later.

Owain looked down and flexed his fingers, grimacing at a wave of pain and the flare of green light that seeped through the bandage. Saying nothing, he merely shrugged. 

“I received your letter and did a full search of the libraries,” Dorian continued. “Best I could do was a few oblique references to orbs and elven magic, but nothing substantial. And nothing about that kind of magic manifesting itself in the human body.” He shook his head in frustration. “I’m sorry. I still have a few open requests at the university. I’ll pick it up when I get back.”

“It’s alright,” Owain replied. “I haven’t had any better luck down here. Really should have asked Solas more questions when I had the chance.”

“None of us knew he was going abscond the second the Breach was sealed.”

“No, and I wish far too often that he hadn’t,” he sighed. “We have a few more immediate problems to deal with, anyway.”

“What do you want to happen?” Dorian asked. “With the Council.”

The question gave him pause. “You know, no one else has asked me that yet? We’ve all been assuming that the Inquisition will continue, but if I’m honest, there are times when I think it shouldn’t. Or at least not in the same way.”

“Sometimes endings are necessary,” Dorian observed. “We should not view them as failures. Either way, Trevelyan, I’m with you, no matter what happens.” He finished the rest of his wine and rose from the bench. “Now, I’ve kept you out here long enough. Josie will have my head if you don’t show yourself in that ballroom again.”

Back inside, Owain did his best to avoid the dance floor, but in the spirit of letting himself be seen, as well as his ambassador’s instructive looks, he found himself obliged to accept a few offers. A nervous young woman who was by turns flirtatious and painfully shy, a regal dowager who spoke to him hardly at all, and the wife of one of the Council members, who needled him with challenging questions that he answered very poorly indeed. 

There were sadly no dances with Cassandra. He had glimpsed her only twice all evening, always from across the room. She had managed to make herself scarce otherwise. He longed to find her, if only to ask her the secret to that feat. 

He settled instead for a moment to himself, nursing a drink beside the fire in a relatively obscure parlor. The respite proved far too short.

Out of nowhere, an Orlesian noble in a silver mask sidled up to him. He racked his brain for the man’s name, even as he cursed his own distraction for not noticing him earlier. Too late to escape and pretend he hadn’t seen. What was his name? 

“Lord Inquisitor,” the masked man began. “I am delighted to have this opportunity to speak with you alone. Marquis Philippe, lord of Chateau Menard.”

Owain bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

“Ah, but I feel as if we are acquainted already,” Philippe replied in a well-oiled voice. “Your kinsmen, the Bayard-Trevelyans, they are dear friends. Perhaps you have heard them speak of me?”

The name was vaguely familiar. Distant cousins? “Regretfully, no. I seldom speak with my relations.”

“Ah, a shame. No matter. You danced earlier with my daughter, Clarisse.”

“Yes, of course,” he said mildly. “A lovely young lady.”

Philippe was a bit too pleased with that offhand compliment. “You made a handsome pair. There were many in the gallery who remarked as such.”

“Is that so?” 

“Why, of course! There may even be some who wish that such an attractive partnership might extend beyond this one evening.”

He bit back the acid retort that was his first instinct. “I doubt that.”

“Oh?” Philippe was undeterred. Josie was right about nobles with something to gain. “It is no secret that the status of the Inquisition lies in peril, Lord Trevelyan. There are many ways to make alliances, as you are no doubt aware.”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to make that kind of alliance,” he said, putting a bit of steel in his voice. His blood was starting to heat now.

“You refer to Lady Pentaghast, naturally. I must admit the love between you is rather famous. The bards sing of the Inquisitor and the Right Hand of the Divine. But is she not devoted to the Seekers of Truth? And Nevarran royalty to be sure, but only 78th in line to the throne?”

“I assure you, my lord, such things mean little to me.” Owain grit his teeth, and the flames roared in the fireplace. A log snapped, sending a flurry of sparks up the flue.

Philippe either failed to notice or paid it no heed. “My daughter has the blood of emperors on both sides! You, most of all, should understand the worth of a strong friendship with the Empire. I am not suggesting you end your relationship with the Lady Seeker, Inquisitor. Quite the opposite—such arrangements are commonplace in Orlais. I am merely presenting the advantages. Surely you must want for a youthful wife, one that can provide you with heirs? One who would bring valuable connections—”

Fire exploded from the hearth with a bang. Someone yelped. Ladies gasped and clutched at their hearts. Owain drew himself up and stepped close to the Marquis, who had finally fallen silent. 

“Let me stop you right there,” he said coldly, “before I do something we’ll both regret.” He snapped his fingers and extinguished the flames in the fireplace. “If you think the Inquisition’s power lies only in our connections, you are sorely mistaken. Good evening.”

He stalked away, leaving behind a roomful of scandalized nobles. Josie would have words for him tomorrow for threatening a Marquis, but at the moment, he couldn’t have cared less. His anger was so blinding, he gave little thought to where he was headed, until he found himself in the Hall of Heroes. When his mind finally focused, he realized the statue he was staring at had gained some rather rude additions, most certainly not the original artist’s work. Looking around, he spotted Sera and an accomplice wielding brushes and a pot of red paint. 

Setting aside the vandalism for now, he made up his mind about something else. 

“Sera, I have a favor to ask,” he said. “And I’m asking because I think you’re the only one who can help me.”

“Pfft. Just say it already.”

“I need a large number of candles. And I’m afraid I’m going to need them in a hurry.”

\--

It was perfect. Sera had done all he asked, and then some. A slew of candles covered the flagstones of the empty balcony, lining the area around the door and the rails. Pleased, he walked to the edge and leaned his elbows on the stone, looking out over the moonlit gardens. 

The last time he stood here at the end of a long evening, he’d been sick of politics, too. Sick of the Game, of the flirting, the flattery, and the masks. Perhaps that was just Orlais. He wasn’t made for this place. At least there was no blood on his coat, this time.

Also this time, he didn’t have to wonder whether Cassandra would come. He had found her and asked her to meet him here, and he had no doubt she would keep her word. 

He was ready. At last. After months of indecision and years’ worth of desire, what was it about today that changed him? Condensed everything into this one moment of courage? Varric was right. Damn his fear, damn the unknown, and damn the Orlesians and their damn alliances. To the Void with it all. This was him and Cassandra. Together, they could face anything. Always and forever. 

As if on cue, she appeared in the open door. He would know her silhouette anywhere. She smiled when she saw him and stepped out onto the balcony. 

The candles, however, she did not notice until he waved his hand and a blazing carpet rolled out before her, surrounding them in a winking, flickering field of lights. She gasped and lifted a hand to her mouth, turning slowly to take it all in. 

He had asked for a dance and was determined to have it, bowing low and offering his hand. She smiled and took it, and he swept her up in his arms. 

Music drifted out through the open windows. He pressed his cheek to her temple and held her close as they swayed to its rhythm. The soft, sweet scent of her was a comfort, the warmth of her in his arms like home. 

“What is the meaning of all this?” she asked, as the orchestra started a new piece. 

“Can I tell you a story?” he replied, trading one question for another. 

“All this, just for that?”

“Is that a problem?” he teased. “You have time for Varric’s stories but not mine?”

“Very well,” she huffed. “Tell me.”

He led them on one more turn about the balcony to gather himself. 

“There was a boy, once, who dreamed of being a knight,” he began, his voice low and quiet, almost a whisper. “He was going to grow up to be a hero, just like the stories. He was going to win tournaments and kill dragons and earn the heart of a princess. But as it turned out, he wasn’t the knight at all. He was the wicked witch in the tower, who was evil and dangerous and feared. He thought that would be his life, and for a long time, it was. 

Until one day, he was suddenly free. And a princess appeared, who was brave and beautiful and strong, and more knight than he would ever be. She was the one who saved him, and it changed everything. He fell in love with her, and they did it all together, slaying dragons and saving the world. It was better than anything he ever dreamed. But do you know the one thing that never changed, even after all that time?”

He paused, and she shook her head in answer. 

“He still wanted to marry the princess.” 

He stopped dancing to ask his final question. “So will you do me the honor? Cassandra, my love. Will you marry me?”

She said nothing right away. When the moment stretched on and still there was no answer, he pulled back and searched her face, suddenly uncertain. What had he done wrong?

“Sorry...” he mumbled. “I don’t know how this is supposed to be done.” He started to bend at the knees. “Should I have gotten a ring? Should I kneel?”

He made it halfway to the ground before she grabbed him by the coat and crushed her mouth to his. He wrapped his arms around her as he rose to full height. When they separated, he smirked and touched their foreheads together. 

“Is that a yes?”

Her eyes shone at him in the candlelight, brimming with tears. She nodded and made a sound that was part gasp, part laugh, part sob. 

“Yes, of course, my love,” she said, shaking the lapels of his coat. “Of _course_ I will marry you.”

And then she kissed him again, putting the seal on her promise. 

_Ah._

They had been together for years. He had bound his future to hers long ago. The words shouldn’t have made a difference. But—Maker—somehow they did. 

Fireworks burst somewhere far above and tinted the edges of his vision blue, purple, and red. If not for the flashes of color, he might have mistaken the sound for the joyful thundering of his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M STILL ALIVE!! Sorry for the long delay on this one, and thanks for sticking with me. Work has been kicking my butt the past couple months, but we're back, and it's ON!
> 
> Also, I caved and made a tumbles. Sometimes you can find me there, if you ever want to chat: <https://whatsherfacewrites.tumblr.com>.


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